


holy shit we have quite possibly the most fuckin ridiculous love quadrilateral on our hands

by godtiermeme



Series: Another Young Adult Misadventure of the Gayest Proportions [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (if you've ever seen okuribito it's like that but without the dead people), (last two tags are just for classification they're not essential to the plot), (no like really slow build), (tbh neither is that last one), (will get kinda serious but not really idek), Agender Karkat, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Karkat, Asexuality, Bisexual Dave, Collegestuck, F/F, F/M, Fencing, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Hispanic Karkat, Humanstuck, Internalized Homophobia, Long, M/M, Other, Past Abuse, Physical Disability, Romantic/Dramatic Comedy, Slow Build, Swordfighting, [jams in a record store au too because why the fuck not]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 78,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A rom-com that even Dave Strider will like."</p><p>OR...</p><p>A tale of romance between a group of friends who all think they're straight as hell. And it would have been just dandy if they were, but they're not. They are <i>so</i> not straight. A beaver can drive a car in a line that's straighter than their sexual orientations. (Except for John, the obligatory heterosexual friend.)</p><p>OR...</p><p>"Shit, let's be an internet celebrity."</p><p>OR...</p><p>College is hard enough between the "finding new friends" and "figuring out what to do with your life" gigs, and falling in love with your roommate doesn't really help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Acquired Taste" is another word for "Annoying"

**Author's Note:**

> # Some basic background information...
> 
>  **Rose and Kanaya are sophomores.** Respectively, they're majoring in psychology and English.
> 
>  **Everyone else is a freshman.**  
>  **John** is majoring in Chemistry.  
>  **Dave** is majoring in Music.  
>  **Karkat** is majoring in History.  
>  **Jade** ...hasn't actually decided yet.  
>  Partially inspired by [_Translation Error_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6613585) and _[Butterflies In My Stomach and Worms In My Intestines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6681286)_  
>     
>  **Skaia University** was founded in he mid-1800's and operates as an undergraduate liberal arts school. It's a large school crammed onto a tiny campus in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Suburbia, USA. Its mascot is Sammy the Sloth.
> 
> **Switches points of views. First few chapters are omnipotent. Then it'll alternate between Karkat (2nd person) and Dave (1st person). Chapter titles let you know who's doing the narration. Just in case. I guess. If you're looking for the real nitty-gritty plot, you can totes just skip to chapters fifty-nine to sixty. Because most of the shit before that is just fluffy relationship building**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Meishan Sings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuFwDVLbUtw)**  
>  Zhao Jiping / 赵季平  
>  ** _Raise the Red Lantern_ / 大红灯笼高高挂** (1994) | Milan Records
> 
> (warning that's traditional chinese opera if you don't like high pitched noises or chinese opera don't click that)
> 
> things that are in ( _italicized paranthesis_ ) are thoughts from the POV character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when people say somethings an acquired taste what theyre really saying is that if you can acquire that taste youre guaranteed to annoy the fuck out of everyone
> 
> [ **Hey! Chapter 29 marks the beginning of a shifting second/first person narrative. Click here to skip right to that!** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738577/chapters/15695995)

 

> Carlos Vantas, 
> 
> Welcome to Skaia University! We wish you the best of luck in your undergraduate career and welcome you to the ever-growing number of Skaia Sloths. You have registered to live on campus, and our dedicated housing team has chosen your housing for you.
> 
> You will be rooming in accessible room 111 in the Derse dormitory building.
> 
> You will share a bathroom with SYSTEM ERROR
> 
> Skaia University’s knowledgeable and experienced rooming staff have paired you with David P. Strider (Dave). DavidPStrider@skaia.edu / turntechGodhead. You will find basic information about your roommate below, including a picture (if your roommate decided to upload one).
> 
> **Student Name:** Dave Strider
> 
> **Student Gender:** Male
> 
> **Student Age:** 19
> 
> **Room Requests:** First floor, no carpet
> 
> **Musical Taste:** I don’t fuckin know
> 
> **Interests:** Music, Art, Eating, Sleeping
> 
> **Ideal Roommate:** Keep your hands out of my fridge and we should be fine and maybe don’t leave your clothes all over the floor but I really don’t care that much
> 
> **Comments:** I’m bringing my guitar so fuck you

 

* * *

 

 

> David Strider,
> 
> Welcome to Skaia University! We wish you the best of luck in your undergraduate career and welcome you to the ever-growing number of Skaia Sloths. You have registered to live on campus, and our dedicated housing team has chosen your housing for you.
> 
> You will be rooming in accessible room 111 in the Derse dormitory building.
> 
> You will share a bathroom with SYSTEM ERROR
> 
> Skaia University’s knowledgeable and experienced rooming staff have paired you with Carlos Vantas. CarlosVantas@skaia.edu / carcinoGeneticist. You will find basic information about your roommate below, including a picture (if your roommate decided to upload one).
> 
> **Student Name:** Karkat Vantas
> 
> **Student Gender:** Other
> 
> **Student Age:** 18
> 
> **Room Requests:** First floor
> 
> **Musical Taste:** Rock, Instrumental
> 
> **Interests:** History, Film, Reading, Not talking to you
> 
> **Ideal Roommate:** Don’t fucking talk to me and we’ll get along perfectly.
> 
> **Comments:** Please don’t give me some stuck-up asshole as a roommate.

 

* * *

In person, Dave Strider looks just like the shitty, grainy photo attached to his personal information.

Blonde hair that’s been carefully groomed to be messy enough to seem tousled without being truly messy, reflective black aviator shades, and an expression comparable to the dictionary definition of apathy. The only things that didn’t really show in the photo were the freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

And, even after being in Dave’s presence for all of five seconds, Karkat Vantas gets a very poignant sense of what this Dave Strider is like.

For starters, he’s already set up his side of the room. And, to Karkat’s chagrin, his gaudy decorations will undoubtedly clash with their own more refined taste. Aside from that, Dave already has music going. It’s loud and awful and yet he, from his spot perched atop his low bed, doesn’t seem to care. In fact, when Karkat comes in, he doesn’t even bother to offer anything more than a disinterested wave.

Still, Karkat gives him the benefit of the doubt. They’re sure that Dave has also just endured some awful cross-country trek to this awful nineteenth century hellhole of a school. They set up their side of the room—hang their large, faux antique map (poster) on the wall beside their bed, and display a large Mexican flag nearby.

It’s easy to tell whose side is whose. Dave’s side is more chaotic. Cracked CD covers and unlabeled records are stacked into tall, precarious towers. Various posters displaying musical information—guitar chords and common time signatures, for instance—are plastered on the wall with a poignant haphazardness. Compared to the white cinderblock wall, they’re quite obviously crooked. Perhaps the most damning evidence of the divide between the roommates is the tiny cluster of pills set atop a sporty red wheelchair tucked neatly beneath the desk.

As for Karkat… Karkat takes pride in their side of the room. The flag and the neat little stacks of books that they’ve organized atop the desk. And their laptop. Karkat has always had a soft spot for that laptop—a small, red netbook covered in old stamps from places their father has been to. Columbia, Germany, France, Spain, Mexico (obviously), and Bulgaria are some of their favorites.

Now, after three hours of moving and shuffling things about, Karkat has officially moved in.

Down the hall, they hear the bustling of various people. Strangers and friends greeting one another and, after a few minutes, Karkat turns towards Dave and sighs. They rub the back of their neck as they speak up, “So… You’re?”

Dave responds to this by propping himself up with his elbows. With a wry smile, he quirks a brow high enough for Karkat to see it above the lens of his sunglasses. “Name’s Dave. Email’s wrong. Dead wrong. I told them to change it, but…” He shrugs. “And you’re… Carlos?”

“Karkat,” they correct the problem quickly before forging onwards. “They/them. I’m from the East Coast. You?”

“He/him. Texas. Didn’t you say you didn’t want to talk?”

“Yeah. But I’m bored and I figure we’ll be stuck together for a while.” Karkat shrugs. They brush some of their thick, habitually messy black hair out of their face. “And all the other fuckwits outside are talking. I don’t really want to go into the hall for some fucking soul-crushing campfire bonding session.”

Dave, in reply, smirks. He pushes himself up a bit further, until his back is fairly straight, and scans the room. “You’re not getting out of those, dude. They’ll be everywhere. Don’t you know that the first week of college is basically a massive fuckin’ wall of icebreakers? Icebreaker hell. That’s what it is. We’re looking right at icebreaker hell. And it’s looking back at us.”

“Shit.”

“You know anyone here?”

Karkat shakes their head. They frown. “How the fuck would I know people I haven’t fucking met yet?”

“I don’t know,” shrugs Dave, pulling the wheelchair out from beneath the bed, “You seem like a dude who needs some buddies, though, so I’m going to be a good roommate and hook you up. See, a lot of the people here ended up being some of my old internet pals and…” A brief pause. Dave lifts himself off of the bed and swiftly maneuvers himself into the chair. It’s a singular, swift movement—one where it would take some sort of impossible skewing of time to be able to truly comprehend what’s happening.

And, in return, Karkat frowns. It’s not a voluntary reaction—it’s just a natural reaction to something mildly shocking.

Dave picks up on the change of expression immediately. He shrugs and adjusts himself, lifting his legs by the thigh and repositioning them until his feet rest atop a flat metal piece coated in a layer of black rubber. “Thought you would’ve noticed by now, dude.” He flashes a smile—one that, for some reason, makes Karkat’s heart flutter—and once again quirks his brow. “C’mon. My cousin and her roommate are just down the hall.”

“I… Who?” says Karkat.

“Her name’s Rose.” Another well-practiced, rapid movement. The door handle is pulled down and the door is pushed out. Dave parks himself in front of it to keep it from closing.

The rest of the day is a blur of movement and voices.

 

* * *

 

Rose is… Pretty. Karkat will admit that much.

She’s got the same freckles and facial structure as Dave and his blond hair. She’s just not their type, though. No; Karkat’s never been one for romance. Sure, it’s nice enough in the books. In real life, though, it’s different.

And Rose’s roommate—Kanaya—her skin is immaculate. Dark brown and smooth and flawless. Her jade green eyes stand out against this like gemstones and her short hair is thick with natural curls. She’s fairly tall. Compared to Dave, she’s a giant. Then again, Karkat can compare themself to Dave and be massive—and they’re little more than five feet tall.

There’s also John and Jade—siblings from the West Coast. Both have shining, straight black hair and naturally tan skin. John’s hair is shorter and messier, though. And, as opposed to Jade’s green eyes, John’s eyes are the color of a clear sky.

And, then, there’s _him_. There’s Dave Strider.

If there’s one thing that Karkat hates—one thing that burns every possible bridge of patience that Karkat has—it’s people they can’t read. And Dave Strider is just that. He looks perpetually apathetic about damned near everything that doesn’t give his tiny attention span a boner. The shades only make things harder.

Hell, how the actual fuck is it not against policy for him to wear those?

Karkat lets forth a loud, irritated huff. They fall back, flat onto their bed, and stare at the ceiling.

“This is going to be one fucking long year,” they mutter under their breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i bet dave is the type of guy who knows that a genre of music isn't generally popular/is an acquired taste and then "ironically" acquires the taste


	2. "What the hell is hypermasculinity?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Más](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOpziyzAbVo)**  
>  Kinky  
>  ** _The Book of Life_** (2014) | Sony Masterworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no dude you dont get it there is no such thing as hypermasculinity the real problem here is karkat that asshole is too cute fuck him i should totally kick his ass or something

“Hey. Hey, Vantas.”

Karkat wakes to someone nudging them by the shoulder. They wake to the realization that it is (a.) still dark outside and (b.) way too early for this. And, in accordance with these realizations, they roll over and offer a succinct reply, _“Vete al carjo.”_ Not the nicest thing to say to your new roommate; but, it’s early. Today is day one of the three-day orientation process and Karkat is not about to squander their precious hours of sleep for some inconsequential bullshit.

“I’m in Chinese 101, dude, but okay…”

“Fuck off. I’m trying to sleep.” Karkat groans. They pull the blankets even closer to them and roll over. They repeat themself, _“Vete al carjo.”_

And Dave, after a few moments of silence, eventually replies, “I’m assuming you’re telling me to fuck off in some other language?”

“ _En Español._ Now, fuck off.”

Dave sighs. He tuts disappointedly. “Someone’s not a happy camper.”

“And someone’s about to be a fucking dead camper if they don’t fucking shut the fuck up.” Karkat covers their head with their pillow. Block out the noise. That’s what they’re going to do. They’ll just ignore Dave until he goes away.

A frustrated huff of air—of breath tinged with the scent of… apple juice—serves as an immediate response. “Damn, dude, you need a fuckin’ girlfriend.”

“I’m asexual,” snaps Karkat. “What the hell do you want, Strider?”

“Strider?” Dave snickers. “That’s so official. I like it. But that’s Mr. Strider to you, Karkat.”

“How about this? I’m Mx. Vantas and you’ll be Dead Strider soon. Now _shut up_.”

“You _really_ need a girlfriend. Maybe some of your rage will come out when you—”

“This is disgusting. Just tell me what you want, _culero_.”

“ _Cul_ is French for ass. I’m going to assume you’re calling me an ass.” Dave hums thoughtfully. When Karkat opens their eye, they see that he’s smirking. The damned bastard knows what he’s doing. “For real, though, I usually wake up around now anyways to—”

“What time is it?”

“ _Quelle heure est-il?”_ Dave mutters absentmindedly. Then, after a brief moment of ( _from what you've seen so far_ ) uncharacteristic lucidity, he answers. “It’s, like, five in the morning. A. M. Five at morning.”

Ignoring the tagged on commentary, Karkat pushes the conversation forward. They utter a string of Spanish profanities. “Thank you, Jacques Asshole. Why do you feel the need to tell me this?”

Dave shrugs. For once, there’s something about him that exudes a sense of sincerity. “Courtesy warning, dude. Bathroom routines take a while. I won’t beguile you with all the disgusting specifics.”

“How courteous.”

“Yeah. I know, right? If you need to use the bathroom, I’d go down to the hall pisser.”

“The public bathroom?”

“No. The public pisser.” Dave smirks. He presses against his knees to straighten his back and slips quietly into the bathroom. Soon after the door has closed, the light shines through the crack between the floor and the door.

And Karkat, finally relieved of the menace that is their newfound roommate, sighs contentedly. They roll over, turning their back to the sliver of light, and fall back to sleep until…

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Karkat. Karkat? Ground control to short man with the funny name.”

Another long, discouraged groan. “You’re still here, _cabrón_? Fuck.” Karkat sits up. They make a mental note to loft their bed when they return. The higher up they are, the harder it will be for Dave to bother them. …Right?

“Dude, orientation starts in an hour.”

“It…” The words fall into place. Karkat, entangled within their own bedsheets, ends up sprawled out on the floor. “Fucking shit.”

“Dress code today’s formal. Dudes wear some nice pants and a shirt with a tie.”

“I’m not a so-called dude and don’t own a tie. What the fuck do they want from me?” By now, Karkat has managed to pry from their dresser a wrinkled button-up shirt and some light slacks. “Fuck it. Fuck it! I can wear whatever the fuck I please!”

Though there’s a hint of laughter from Dave, his usual apathetic expression doesn’t change. Rather, he cocks his head a bit to the side and backs up until he’s in front of his closet. He opens the door and pulls out a few generic neckties—one black, one gold, and one silver. “You can borrow one of mine. I mean… They’re made for use on wheels but they’ll work fine on you… besides, I guess, being a lil short.”

Karkat hesitates. “On… wheels?”

“Yeah. You get it, right?” Dave’s shoulders drop slightly. He pushes his shades up enough for Karkat to see him roll his eyes—eyes which are a strange, dark red—before dropping them back into place. “Please don’t make me explain this to you, dude. Don’t be the one who kills the fuckin’ Strider with your cluelessness. Cause it’d be a damned shame if I dropped dead before classes even start.”

More hesitation. After they’ve gathered their thoughts, however, Karkat manages a slow nod. “If I need a girlfriend, then you need someone to rip your goddamned tongue out.” They snatch the silver tie and utter a quiet thanks before retreating to change in the bathroom.

They’ve always been a fast changer; mornings are nothing. Wake up, throw some clothes on, perform the daily grooming rituals, and…

Done.

Karkat stumbles back into the dorm room with a horrendously uneven tie.

And, naturally, Dave picks up on this. “Have you never tied a fuckin’ tie?”

“I don’t usually wear ties,” they say in protest. “I’m partial to collarless looks and—FUCK! What are you doing?” Karkat gags as they’re pulled down to Dave’s level by the tie. “Don’t undo my… God fucking dammit.”

Despite the commentary, Dave continues working. His hands move quickly—too fast for Karkat to see what’s going on—and, within seconds, he hums in satisfaction. As if to show appreciation for his own work, he adds on a subtle fingertip kiss. It’s an outlandish, flamboyant gesture that seems completely out of place coming from someone as not-exactly-aggressively but not-exactly-subtly masculine as him. “There you go, dude. Fixed up and ready to go.” He lifts himself a few inches off of the seat, moves, and drops. “Sorry. People with fucked up ties just… Yuck.”

Karkat, despite the fact that not a single bone in their body gives a legitimate fuck about the commentary which comes from this strange man in front of them, nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay. And I hate people who act all fucking enigmatic to be cool.”

“Same.” It’s not clear whether the statement is sincere or sarcastic.

Either way, it prompts Karkat to get away from the blond bastard as fast as they possibly can.

Not that it helps.

Dave follows closely. He trails Karkat into the dining hall and claims a seat across from them.

When Karkat tries to discretely move, Dave continues to tag along.

And, in reply, Karkat bites their tongue.

They can’t exactly tell their roommate to fuck off in front of the entire school—in front of all these people they don’t even know. That would be rude in general; but, if they do it to Dave… Or… Maybe… “What about your friends? Like John and Jade and all of them.”

Dave frowns. “They’re in different groups. Jade’s undecided and John’s majoring in chemistry.” Somehow, despite retaining the same infuriatingly emotionless expression, he seems sad. He prods at bits of his cereal and seems to watch as they float upon the resultant, tiny waves of milk. “All the STEM majors get put together for orientation. Well… STEM and people who _think_ that they _might_ be looking at STEM fields. Rose and Kanaya are a year ahead of us.”

Karkat frowns. For some reason, they’d pegged Dave as some sort of science person. Though they’re not sure exactly what science, they had gotten that distinctive air from him—that sense that he loves to see how the world works. And, now that they’ve been told otherwise, they can’t help but be mildly surprised. “So… What’s your major?”

“Music.” Dave seems to perk back to his usual, over-inflated self. He straightens his back once more and offers a wide, cocky, but brief smile. “Always wanted to be a musician. Drop some sick beats. You didn’t notice the posters?”

Shit.

Karkat shakes their head. “You seem like the type of conflated asshole who puts up shit for aesthetic over purpose.”

“Oh. I am. But those are both.” As if this is the most important information to ever hit the world, Dave nods sagely. “So, you have to be one of the humanities jackasses like me, right? What’s your completely fuckin’ useless field?”

“History isn’t useless,” Karkat snaps. They spear their pancake on their fork aggressively. Drown the heated batter in a sea of syrup.

Dave…

Dave is already starting to get on Karkat’s nerves. It’s bad enough that they have to live with the fucker. Now, it’s looking increasingly likely that they’ll be putting up with having Dave as their unwanted shadow. And, of course, they know it sounds awful. But they hadn’t gone halfway across the damned country to end up being stuck with the nerds again.

No, Karkat wants to be cool.

Just for once—for one single goddamned time—Karkat wants to be part of the cool crowd. And, as awful as they know it sounds, there’s the distinct knowledge that Dave Strider will drag them down. It doesn’t matter how cool he acts or how enigmatic and aloof he is. He’s just, quite honestly, a dork. A dork hiding behind a shitty façade of toughness…

“By the way…”

Karkat frowns and glances at Dave.

Still, his expression is indecipherable. His tone of voice is flat and dry. “You can tell me to leave, by the way.” He leans in a bit closer. He falters, clumsily catches himself on the table, and seems to use the surface for balance. His voice drops so that he’s whispering. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to get tagged onto me. I wouldn’t, either. Just say it real quiet and I’ll leave you alone.”

And Karkat, caught off-guard, stares blankly at him. “I…” Heat rises to their cheeks. Though they know it’s not nearly as noticeable as it is on others, they’re perfectly aware of the fact that people can tell when they’re blushing. “I… No. That’s… not…”

Dave winces. He pushes off of the table so that’s he sitting up straight again. “Ow. Fuck. That was an awful idea. Really, though, dude, feel free to tell me to fuck off. I’ll go find some other people to tag along with. It’s just...” There’s a pause. Dave taps his fingers against the table as he thinks. Then, he speaks. “I know you already… sort of. And I never really was let out of my Bro’s apartment as a kid so I tend to follow around the people I know.” He shrugs. Still, his mood is indescribable.

Then, for a brief second, there’s a flash of lucidity—a twitch of his lips that leans towards a shocked frown. “I… That was really… Sorry. That was something Bro would’ve…” He buries his face in his hands for a moment. “Really… I’m sorry. That came off really fuckin’ pitifully, didn’t it? Didn’t mean for it to… Just… Never mind.”

“You okay, Strider?”

“Yeah…” Dave runs his fingers through his hair. And Karkat watches with unnatural interest as the golden strands fall back into place. “Bro was my last legal guardian. Used to think he was super cool and shit but… Not really sure how that started. He literally stabbed me in the back.” A dismissive wave. A brief flash of an oddly sincere smile. “Really, dude, feel free to send me off. I’ll be fine.”

“No…” How the hell is Karkat supposed to tell Dave to leave after that? “You’re fine. You’re mildly annoying, but so is everyone else on this fucking planet.”

From Dave, there comes a sigh of relief. “Cool. Thanks.”

“No problem…”

Somewhere, in their gut, Karkat has a feeling that they’re going to regret this.

 

* * *

 

It’s late at night by the time Dave manages to finish showering and takes the elevator to John’s room.

John lives in the same building, Derse dormitory. He’s on the fourth floor and, apparently, managed to luck out and get a single room. Lucky fucker. ( _And a cute one… No… That’s… That’s not a thought that just went through your head. Scratch that._ )

Now, as he balances atop the unadorned second bed in the room—the bed which was to belong to a roommate who apparently dropped out—he stares at the stippled ceiling. He listens to John speaking and can’t help but feel the energy which comes from his voice.

“So, Carlos…”

“Karkat,” Dave quietly corrects.

“Karkat… Weird name. Oh well. He’s cool? Not a big asshole like Bro?”

Again, Dave offers a quiet correction. “They. They’re cool. What they need, though, is someone to hook up with. They’re damned pitiful, John. They’ve got some cute skirts in their wardrobe, though.”

“He… wears skirts?” John frowns. His brows furrow, the inner edges pressing together in confusion. “You’ve got a weird one, Dave.”

Already tired from a long day of crisscrossing campus and being forced to participate in awful icebreakers, Dave decides against trying to explain the concept to John. It’s not that John is mean or intolerant; he’s just… innocent. Yes. Innocent is a good word. “Whatever. I was thinking Kanaya.”

“You can’t hook up a freshman with Kanaya,” John sputters.

“ _You’re_ a freshman, Egbert,” Dave snickers, “And it’s just an idea. I think they’d be great for each other.”

“Worth trying, right?”

“Everything’s worth trying, John. The worst that can happen is failure.” Though Dave says this often, he’ll never admit that it’s his personal motto. After all, he’s only got one chance to live his life. If he wants to do something, he might as well try. ( _But that… That’s such a shitty, soft idea. It’s so disgustingly… Feminine? It’s just gross. Somehow, it’s too sweet._ )

John, oblivious to the thoughts which flood Dave’s brain, laughs. And his smile—that wide, toothy grin—makes Dave’s heart skip a beat. “Maybe you should switch to philosophy, Dave.”

“Yeah.” A tired laugh. “Maybe.” With that said, Dave stretches his arms above his head. He winces as the action pulls on his old injuries. “Look, I’m tired as fuck. You mind if we cut this off early?”

“Nah,” John smiles. “I was going to say we do that, too. I’m tired. Icebreakers suck, don’t they?”

Unlocking his brakes, Dave offers a wry grin. “Yeah. They’re the fuckin’ worst.” He turns and wheels towards the exit of the room. “I’ll see you later, John. We can discuss the plan then. Cool?”

“Cool as a cucumber.”

A laugh slips past Dave’s filters, though he quickly stifles it. “Don’t say that, John. You sound like a dork.”


	3. When I say "negotiation"...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Beyond the Sea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bRAtV-jgoQ)**  
>  Bobby Darin  
> (1959)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who needs talking when you have fists   
>  i mean really look at this shit wow hi your face looks nice for punching   
>  meet my fuckin fist hell yeah fatality

It was around noon when the usual humdrum of orientation was broken by the loud, unabashed exclamation of a slur—a certain three-letter slur which begins with an “F.”

It’s something that Karkat hadn’t expected to hear at college. After all, people should have grown the fuck up by now, right?

And, yet, they stood in the bathroom—the men’s bathroom, seeing as there wasn’t exactly a gender-neutral one—and they heard it. They frowned, wiped their hands on their shirt—today, a knitted pastel pink sweater made by their late grandmother—and proceeded to do as they always have. They ignored it. Ignore any problem for long enough and it will go away…

“Hey. Jackass. I’m talking to you!”

Karkat sighed. They turned, prepared to reply to the commentary, only to find someone familiar—one of only a handful of people shorter than them—parked in front of him. And, in front of _him_ , there was another man—someone huge and at least six feet tall—who didn’t look too keen on talking things out.

 

* * *

 

“You’re an idiot, Strider.”

Dave shrugs. He grabs onto the closest part of his chair—this time, the right wheel, and pulls it towards him. His other arm moves and presses against the seat cushion until that he’s propped up against the chair’s frame. “Weren’t any admins around, though, so it ain’t my problem, right? Of course I’m fuckin’ right.”

“You tackled a six-foot tall frat president and now you’ve got an entire fraternity all riled up and ready to pummel our asses to little more than dust in the motherfucking wind the minute we’re matriculated, Dave.” Karkat sighs. Why? Even in high school chemistry, they’d get the crappy ones—the ones with no sense. The ones who put the… chemical… in the other chemical… The ones that fucked things up. In summary, Karkat always gets paired with people who tend to fuck things up.

However, Dave seems unconcerned. Aside from the fact that there are already hints that he’s going to have a pretty obvious black eye tomorrow, he actually seems proud of himself. In fact, he’s smiling. He’s smiling sincerely and it’s kind of cute. “So I roughed him up a little. What’s the fucker’s deal? He pissed that I could beat him up?”

“Well. Yeah. Duh.” Karkat rolls their eyes and sighs. “You broke his fucking nose, Strider. You _broke a frat president’s nose_. We are so fucking screwed. I’m going to have my ass mounted above an alcohol-fueled fireplace before I even get to finish my first fucking semester.”

“No one was here to see it, and he can’t touch me without looking like a total fuckin’ asshole.” Dave’s words are confident. It’s as if he’s done this before. Hell, for all Karkat knows, punching people and then banking on his immunity might be Dave’s favorite hobby. If the cocky lilt in his voice is anything to go by, it just might be that way. “And I’ve held my own for twelve years in this cherry red chariot. I can handle some rowdy, drunken bastards.”

“I can’t,” Karkat protests. “You punched a frat president _and_ you associated me with it.”

A dismissive hum. Dave grabs onto the backrest and pulls himself back into the seat. He readjusts himself into a comfortable-looking position. “Don’t sweat it, dude.”

“What?” Karkat sputters. “Don’t sweat it!? I’m going to die soon at the hands of enraged, intolerant frat boys and you have the fucking gall to tell me the basic equivalent of ‘chill out’?”

“Look, I only ever got out of the apartment for my last two years of high school, but I’d be lying if I said that banking on my status and other people’s fuckin’ ridiculous aversion to fighting me isn’t fun. Besides, being beaten up isn’t all that bad.” He pauses, frowns, and chews on his lip for a moment. “Well… I don’t feel anything from my chest down, so… Maybe I’m a bad example. Scratch that.”

“This isn’t helping.” By now, Karkat finds themself caught between two options. The first is to throw their hands into the air in defeat and wave a tiny, shriveled white flag made of their own dead dignity as they get their ass kicked by an entire frat; or, if Dave is right, watch Dave do the aforementioned actions to the members of the frat. The other is to beat up Dave. And, despite the fact that Dave has already mentioned that he enjoys provoking people, Karkat finds themself unwilling to do the latter. So, then, it must be option one. “Why the actual fuck did you do that, anyhow?”

“Because I consider you a sort-of friend or acquaintance and that was a real shitty thing to say to you.” A hint of a smile threatens to appear on his face. It is, however, rapidly suppressed. “Besides, I know what it’s like to get shit like that every day. Bro did it all the time. Called me the exact same thing.” He says this as if it’s little more than some unremarkable daily fact. As if he’s resigned himself to believing that he’s worth as little as the names he’s been called would imply. “Besides, nothing’s more exciting than punching a dude who deserves it in the fuckin’ face.”

“Fair enough.” Karkat sighs. Burying their hands in their pockets, they begin to make their way out of the gym. There are other places to be; and, it’s lunch time. Actually… “John and Jade should be at lunch since it’s a freshmen-wide free period.”

Dave grins. This time, he does nothing to stop it. With an extravagant and energetic flare, he unlocks his chair’s brakes. “Well count me the hell in. Outside, right?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure it’s cookout style.”

“I do love some goddamned meat.”

Karkat rolls their eyes. A rare spark of hope lights itself within them. It’s a sense that maybe—just maybe—this year won’t be as bad as they’d expected it to be. In fact, this year might just be… fun. Perhaps…


	4. "Stock up on that dinner food, kids"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Lida Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KwCNNKW4mI)**  
>  The Buffalo Bills / Barbara Cook  
>  ** _The Music Man_** (1958) | Capitol Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah okay so the whole point of dinner is like mini hybernation   
>  eat enough shit to sustain your meat sac for the night

It’s the end of the third day of orientation. The three-day festival of shameless icebreakers and awful get-to-know exercises has finally come to a close.

Karkat has opted to celebrate this by going to sleep. Despite it only being 6:00, they've locked themself in the room.

Dave, however, celebrates by meeting up with Jade and John at the campus dining hall.

“You’re on time for once.” John’s comment is accompanied by a smirk. That smirk fades, though, as he continues, “What’s with the black eye? You and Karkat already at each other’s throats?”

“Fuck you, Egbert. And I broke some random frat jackass’s nose. No big deal.”

“You’re going to wind up dead prancing around and punching people at random, dude.”

A shrug. Dave snags a plate and approaches the buffet-style display of food. It takes little time for him decide upon his meal. A huge burger comprised of two beef patties padded between cheese, lettuce, and a liberal drizzle of olive oil.

It’s a combination that John quickly rejects. “That’s disgusting. Where the hell did you learn how to make a burger? Preschool?”

“Technically, from the foster family I lived with for a year. And those fuckers would pop literal boners for olive oil.” Here, Dave pauses. He leans towards John and whispers loudly, “I think they were from the part of Europe that really likes tomatoes.”

“How wonderful for them.” John rolls his eyes. He nods towards a table occupied by one other person—a familiar woman with long, black hair and vivid green eyes. “Jade’s waiting over there, dude. Try talking to her. I think a girlfriend would do you some good.”

“What?” Dave sputters. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Rose.” John has never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

Dave responds with a playful shove. “Whatever, Egbert. Go get some fuckin’ drinks.”

Shrugging, John trots off to obey Dave’s request.

And Dave joins Jade at the table.

Now, he’s known her for a while. She’s another of his internet friends. However, she never video chatted. Unlike everyone else, she didn’t have a webcam. So, really, Dave is only getting to see her for the first time. (Technically the second, since he introduced her to Karkat.)

“Dave!” Her voice is energetic and peppy. Almost overly so. “You made it on time.”

( _And her smile… It’s something you haven't seen all that much. It’s a genuine show of happiness that seems to be directed towards you. It’s not the condescending smile that you get from people who think that attempting to move you without your consent is definable as lending a helping hand—as opposed to, perhaps, you losing your carefully composed center of gravity and ending up with the umpteenth busted lip of your entire life. Nor is it the forced smile of someone who would rather gag themselves with a sword than be seen near you._

_No. You've wasted too much time thinking about all of this…_

_Say something…_ )

“I’m not always late. And, when I _am_ late, I’m fashionably late.” ( _Goddammit._ ) Still, Dave forces a mostly insincere smile. He grabs onto the edge of the table and pulls himself in as a small group passes through the narrow aisle.

Jade, in return, laughs. It’s an unexpectedly graceful laugh—the exact opposite of John’s, which is primarily comprised of bemused snorts. “What’s with the eye?”

( _Oh fuck. Everyone’s going to know it was you at this rate._ )

“Punched a guy. Broke his nose.” Dave frowns as a familiar burning sensation runs down his spine. It begins about halfway down and shoots through the rest of him like a wildfire. Throughout this, he maintains his usual apathetic expression. ( _Pain is personal. It’s not to be shared with others; they don’t give a damn._ ) When he speaks, though, his voice is just the slightest bit strained. “Anything happen at the STEM major shindig? Any wild shit?”

“Not really.” Jade shrugs. She doesn’t seem to notice the change in Dave’s voice. “Since I didn’t see you there, I’m guessing you’re a…?”

“Music major.” The fact that she either ignored or overlooked his brief moment of weakness relieves Dave enough for him to fully relax. With the passing crowd gone, he pushes back out and allows his body to fall into its more natural position. Shoulders and arms and upper torso ready to move at the drop of a coin while the rest of him remains in a natural sort of slouch. “Have you figured out what you’re drowning in debt for?”

“My major?” Jade rolls her eyes. ( _They’re so clear… So bright… What the actual hell?_ ) “You could’ve just said that, Dave. But… Well… I’m thinking biology. We’ve got until sophomore year to declare, though.”

Dave nods.

Around this point, John returns with the drinks. A full cup of Pepsi for himself and a full glass of Coca-Cola for Dave. As he approaches, he elbows Dave playfully and winks. “We’ve got a flirt over here, everyone,” he snickers.

And, to this, Dave once again feels the heat rush to his cheeks. He makes the effort required to straighten his back and clears his throat. “I… No. Really. I was just talking random shit with Jade until you got back. Really.”

“Don’t be so modest, Dave.”

“ _Shut up, John. Now._ ” He doesn’t mean for the words to come out as harshly as they do. And he certainly doesn’t like the twinge of guilt he feels when John shrinks away from him. ( _The last person you dated was Terezi. And that was little more than a game. Something from beyond twelve years ago. Before everything else happened._ )

“Sheesh.”

Jade’s smile wanes momentarily. However, it returns to its usual brightness just as quickly. “What’re you doing with your music major?”

“I don’t know. I want to be a musician. One of those guys whose name is in real big letters at the end of a movie and all the people in the audience lose their fuckin’ shit because it’s me.” Dave shrugs. He pushes aside the guilt and begins to work on his unnecessarily large burger. ( _Too big. Note to self: Make it smaller next time._ )  “I play guitar so…”

“I play bass.” Jade’s eye sparkle. They grab a hold of Dave’s steel-plated heart and drive a finely sharpened blade through the shield. “We should team up some time.”

“Totally!” Dave responds with a genuine smile. “I’m turntechGodhead on Pesterchum, if you want to contact me.”

“Sweet date, dude,” John whispers in his ear.

And Dave, by now riding on a high from somehow stumbling blindly into a free date, does little more than roll his eyes at the comment.

 

* * *

 

Karkat wakes to find the clock by their bed displaying an ungodly time. 3:00 A. M. They wake to the sound of the door clicking shut. They groan and rub their eyes. “It’s not even the first fucking day yet, Strider. What the hell?”

Dave shrugs. He stops in front of his desk and pulls a handful of bottles from one of the drawers. He dumps them onto the table, sorts them, and drops them into a standard weekly pill organizer. “Go back to sleep, Shouty McFucknubs.”

“Did you just call me Shouty McFucknubs?” Karkat frowns. Their brows furrow. And, around now, a foul odor hits them. Their nose crinkles in response. “What the hell is that smell?”

There’s a moment of hesitation and a nervous laugh from Dave. “Sorry.”

“What the hell did you do?”

“None of your fuckin’ business,” Dave offers a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do you need to use the bathroom soon?”

“No?” Karkat’s frown grows. “I’m going back to sleep. Good fucking night.”

“Same to you.” The bathroom door clicks shut behind Dave.


	5. "I love the smell of shit in the morning"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Particles of the Universe (Heartbeats)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkNNOPEwihY)**  
>  Dan Romer  
>  ** _Beasts of the Southern Wild_** (2012) | Cinereach Productions
> 
> [This rad as fuck fingerstyle guitar cover is also relevant.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMrVC_jPBgI)  
>  also a reminder that ( _shit like this_ ) is optional but recommended and signifies a thought or some thoughts from the POV character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i say shit i meant sheets   
>  sheets of all that homework i havent actually done   
>  and that paper i should turn in but wont

Ten chords—ten rapid-fire sets of notes—are played with a poignant passion. A distinctive confidence. And, then, there comes a series of repeated riffs. Two triplets. The first—down, up, same. The second—same, down, down. (To be quite honest, Karkat doesn’t know much about music. They’re more for visual art.)

“I think it’s time to blow this scene. Get everybody and their stuff together…”

Those words.

Karkat knows them.

They know those words. But from where…?

( _John. That godawful show he made you watch…_ )

“Three, two, one. Let’s jam.”

As Karkat steps into the room, the music comes to a sudden halt.

Dave speaks up. “Dude. Knock. That’s what humans have knuckles for. So we can fuckin’ knock on the fuckin’ door.” He frowns, sets his guitar on its stand, and rolls his eyes before slipping his usual protective gloves back on and pushing himself forward. “Would you believe me if I said that was an original?”

“It’s from an anime,” Karkat grumbles.

“Well. Shit. Didn’t know you were into absolute trash. Which one?”

“Like I would fucking know.”

“Cowboy Bebop.” A look of cocky pleasure spreads across Dave’s face. “Yoko Kanno.”

“Thank you, Dave Strider, the walking soundtrack thesaurus.”

“‘Rolling’ would be a more accurate descriptor.”

The further into the room Karkat gets, the more he notices the smell. It’s the same as before. Not quite as concentrated, though… “Did you fix the awful fucking stink from last night?”

“Hm?” Dave’s shoulders droops somewhat. He whistles absentmindedly—or, perhaps, with facetious innocence. “Look, there’s shit you don’t really want to know about. I’m working on it.”

“Aren’t you going on a date or something at some point? Meeting up with John’s airheaded cousin?”

“Her name is Jade, and she’s fuckin’ hot,” protests Dave. He folds his arms across his chest and, for a moment, there’s a look of discomfort. It’s brief and barely noticeable; but, Karkat notices.

Karkat picks up on the way Dave seems tug at his left pants leg. They notice the peculiar way he sometimes lifts himself so that all of his weight is on either the left or right. And, for all that they find they resent Dave, they can’t help but feel concerned. “You feeling okay, Strider?”

“Yeah. It’s a… Um…” A nervous frown. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Okay, fine, I’ll come clean. It’s real gross, though, so…”

“Just cut the shit already, jackass.”

“Okay. Jesus. Fine.” Dave fiddles with the brakes on his chair. There’s one for each wheel—something that, to Karkat, seems relatively odd. ( _Why put one on each wheel? Why not just connect them both so that you only need to flip one?_ ) “It’s a bladder infection. Happens sometimes when you can’t actually control your piss.” With this much said, Dave’s face begins to turn a vibrant pink. He coughs in that fake way that people who are trying to think of something to say do. “You regret asking, now?”

“Not really.” Karkat shrugs. “I don’t give a fuck. I just wanted to know what the hell it was.” They step up to their desk and pull from the built-in shelf one of the four blank notebooks they brought with them.

“Do you…” Dave hesitates.

( _Compared to the cocky blond from the first day, this just isn’t him. It’s someone who actually seems real. In fact, you're beginning to get a sense of the person hidden underneath the wall of indifference and dismissive confidence. He’s nervous. Insecure. Uncertain. In fact, the more you think about it, the more you begin to see yourself in Dave_.)

“You don’t mind, right? I mean…” he forces a laugh, “You’re stuck with it, so…”

“I don’t give a damn,” Karkat answers truthfully. They flop onto the bed with a resounding sigh.

“‘Sup with you, bud?” A long sigh escapes Dave as he lifts himself onto his bed. Somehow, Karkat gets the feeling that he’s happy to have an excuse to change the subject.

Karkat shrugs. They debate briefly whether or not it’s worth talking to Dave; but, in the end, they figure it’s not the worst thing they could be doing. “Family weekend is next weekend, right?”

“Yeah.” Dave, propped up by his elbows, cocks his head to the side. “Your family coming?”

“Unfortunately.” Karkat covers their face with their hands. “Yours?”

A frown. Another chink in the armor of the seemingly superhuman Dave Strider. “My parents are dead and my older brother’s in jail for…” He pauses. From him emanates a noise akin to a disinterested, nasal sigh. “Lots of reasons, actually. Something about porn and something else about drugs and the whole fact that he was a shitty guardian.”

“Oh.”

“Does Rose count?”

“Rose goes here, you dipshit.”

Dave shrugs. “Well, then, nope. Why’re you so damned pissed at your family for coming?”

“My older brother Kankri. That’s all you need to know.” Karkat groans.

A snort of laughter. “What sort of fuckin’ name is that?”

“Tell me about it.” Closing their eyes, Karkat can see their brother’s face.

He’s much taller than them. Same general build, though, albeit stretched to lanky, awkward proportions. If anything, his looks like some sort of overdone mannerist painting.

Karkat flips through their notebook as they continue, “He’s a preacher. Picked the name he has now because he claims it sounds unique.” ( _The more you speak about Kankri, the more outrageously ridiculous he seems._ ) “Santos. That was his original name. Dumped it for goddamned Kankri.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

Rolling their eyes, Karkat slams the empty notebook shut and heads for the door. “You really do not want to know.”

“Fair enough.” Dave’s voice has a strange, sing-song quality. It’s pleasant to listen to. “Later, dude.”

“Yeah. Sure. Later.”

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t know you drew shit, Karkat.”

( _Holy fuck._ )

Karkat jumps. They turn to face the source of the sound. “Egbert?” they say, making no attempt to mask their confusion. “How the hell are you in this class?”

“ _Well_ ,” John draws the vowel out to a mildly comedic effect. “I went online and I logged on and I clicked on the button that signed me up for this class. Was I supposed to do something more historical? Like, I don’t know, send a pigeon?”

“What the fuck are you—?”

“Pigeons are pretty cool when you think about it.”

Karkat blinks.

( _Is this actually happening right now? Is it?_ )

They’re about to say something when the door swings open and the instructor walks in.

The professor is a tall, gaunt man who looks like he could use more than a few doses of straight up caffeine. Shadows hang beneath his eyes and his stubble-covered face is pulled into a distinct frown. If Karkat were to classify him, they’d say that he’s a walking Disney villain. The one from _Ratatouille_ , probably. “Welcome to Colonial American History.” He looks around and sighs. “How many of you are freshmen?”

Karkat and John’s hands both go into the air.

“Wonderful. The syllabus is online. I’m Doctor Binns.”

A strangled grunt of disinterest escapes Karkat. They flip open their notebook and write—in their usual, all-capital scrawl—the heading for the first class. ‘Welcome to Fucking Snoozeville, Day 1.’ Then, they turn their attentions to doodling.

Birds.

For some reason, Karkat has always loved to draw birds. When they were younger, they often spent recess hiding in the woods behind the school and sketching. In high school, they were often chastised for spending more time staring out the window than at their books. ( _Really, though, there’s only so many hours of droning economics lectures you can listen to before slamming your face through a brick wall._ )

Their favorite things to draw, though, have always been wings. Thick, feathery wings whose fibers splay dramatically across the page. Underscored by tenebrous, dramatic shadows. Made from thin, light lines which weave together almost haphazardly and…

“Dude.”

Karkat’s attention breaks as John elbows them in the side. They offer a brief scowl before realizing that their name is being called. Or, rather, their old name.

“Carlos Vantas? Is he here or…?”

“Karkat. I go by Karkat.”

“You’ll be going by airheaded starving artist if you don’t pay more attention in my class.”

Karkat opens their mouth to correct the issue. After a moment, though, they decide against it. Sending an email at a later time should suffice. Not that they really care what some bloated old windbag thinks of them; there are other people to suck up to. This outdated, fossilized potato sack of a man isn’t worth their time. “Yes, sir.”

There’s an approving nod from the instructor. And, as soon as his attentions are on teaching and lecturing, Karkat returns to doodling.

 

* * *

 

Art class.

14:00-15:30 or 2:00-3:30 ( _because who the hell uses military time_ ).

Instructor: Professor Preston.

Dave sighs as he parks himself in a fairly crowded old science classroom.

The windows have been removed and replaced with colorful stained glass; washed out pink curtains with white ribbons holding them open flank them on either side. The old lab desks have been painted a bright, pastel yellow and the metal teacher’s desk covered in large, sickeningly cheerful green polka dots.

It has this strange feeling to it. It’s almost like an elementary school classroom. ( _Some inspirational signs here. A shitty ‘Do your best’ poster there. Throw in some bug-eyed little kids guzzling Elmer’s glue like the finest vodka and this place could be a veritable pre-school._ )

Sure, everyone else seems happy. There’s a very obviously stoned hippy-looking dude with a purple beanie and grey and white clown face paint. ( _And if that asshole were any happier, he’d be hyping himself to the damned moon._ )

“Dave! You’re in this class.”

Caught off-guard, Dave chokes on his own spit. He coughs gracelessly before turning his head to face an ever-cheerful Jade Harley. “Humanities majors are doomed to suffer through the most degrading bullshit,” he shrugs.

Jade laughs. The sound is like bell chimes which echo in Dave’s ears. “So you don’t just say weird crap online?”

“Nope. I say weird shit all the time. I’m the perfect person to go to for all of your surrealist greeting card needs.” ( _She’s so damned pretty. What the actual hell. No one—ABSOLUTELY NO ONE—should be this goddamned pretty._ ) “So… You’re taking art, too?”

“Theory of music was full.” Jade pouts.

And Dave nods approvingly. He’d also tried to sign up for that class; and, it was just as closed off to him as it was to Jade.

There’s a familiar burning pain. He presses the heel of his palm against his left leg and stifles the urge to bite his lip. ( _Why can’t you just keep yourself out of all of this shit? You're out of the dating game. You've been out for forever. Why, then, does the world need to constantly expose you to this bullshit thing known as sexuality?_ )

“Sorry I’m late.” A woman—tall, portly, and with a cheerful smile ( _that comes nothing close to Jade’s_ ) bursts into the room. “I’m Professor Preston. Welcome to Drawing 101.” It’s almost amusing how much this woman acts like Jade. Both speak with unbridled zeal and passion. Both have about themselves an air of happiness so thick it might as well be the most goddamned cheerful storm cloud to exist… “I’m going to go around and I’d like you to say your name, major, and hometown.”

Dave sighs. He lets the sketchbook he’d brought with him drop into his lap. ( _More icebreakers. If they’d had all of these on the Titanic, the fuckin’ thing wouldn’t have fuckin’ sunk._ )

Being near the end of the group, Dave gets stuck waiting for a solid seven minutes before he’s finally approached. And, when he is, he can’t help but feel as if he’s being interrogated. Authority figures always make him feel like he’s being interrogated.

“And you, young man?”

( _She looks nothing like Bro. She acts nothing like Bro. Stop being such a fuckin’ wimp._ ) “Dave.” His voice is quieter than usual. ( _You sound_   _like a strangled horse. Goddammit._ ) He clears his throat and tries again. This time, his voice is clear and true to its usual tone. “Dave Strider. Music. Houston, Texas. Sorry.”

“You’re fine, sweetie.” The instructor flashes an enthusiastic thumbs up. “By the way, the tables here are a bit high up. If you’d like your own, let me know. Most people like working on the regular desks more.”

“Yeah…” As she moves away, Dave releases the breath he’s been holding. “Cool.” He allows himself to relax. He’s perfectly aware of how awful his posture looks when he’s not putting any effort into maintaining it; but, he’s not exactly up for wasting energy on any more superficial bullshit.

“She seems nice.”

Dave pauses. It takes him a moment to remember who he’s sitting next to. “Oh. Yeah. She’s a damned firecracker of happy.”

“I think this class is going to be fun. Don’t you?”

( _Not really._ )

“Totally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Beasts of the Southern Wild](https://www.amazon.com/Beasts-Southern-Music-Motion-Picture/dp/B008IMY3Q4) is also available with Amazon Prime.


	6. When I say "Jackass" you go punch that dude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[I Think I Broke Something](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCpU5ch3Bpc)**  
>  Dan Romer  
>  ** _Beasts of the Southern Wild_** (2012) | Cinereach Productions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no really go ahead deck that fucker in the nose

Mondays and Wednesdays are the same for Karkat. There’s a shitty intro to history course in the morning and the awful class on the American colonies

Tuesdays, though are looking promising. Tuesdays only have one class. It’s from noon until two. Landscape Painting, also known as Art 221.

It’s not for their major, of course; but, they need an art credit for general requirements. So, they figured they might as well try and do something they’ve never done before.

Except…

When they wake up, they find Dave pulling out some familiar-looking supplies—an assortment of paint tubes, brushes, and even the same painting paper. They freeze and, after a few moments of recovering from the shock, they speak up. “You’re… You’re not in the oil painting class, are you?”

Dave, in return, frowns. He turns to face his roommate and shrugs. “Yeah. Music majors need one extra visual arts class in addition to the general requirement one.” Turning back towards his stack of supplies, he begins to haphazardly shove them into a beaten up black backpack—one with a massive, sharp-edged gash that’s been sloppily sewn back together. ( _It looks like a sword or a knife mark…_ ) “Why?”

“Fuck.”

Dave snickers. But, as per usual, his expression doesn’t change. “I’m guessing that means you’re in it, too, then?”

“Yup.” Karkat rolls their eyes. ( _Perfect. Now you have class together. And by “perfect,” you really mean to say “motherfucking dammit.”_ ) They bury their hands in their pockets and tug at the strap of their own bag. “Can you even… physically do that?”

By now, Dave has strapped the backpack to his chair through some convoluted means of wrapping the straps around the frame. He frowns and removes his shades for a moment. ( _Why the hell are his eyes that color? Is that natural?_ ) His brows furrow; the inner edges press together. As he wipes the lenses against his shirt, he responds, “I can do the exact same things as you can, jackass.” There’s a sharpness to his voice that isn’t normally there—a sense of distinctive annoyance. “Yeah, sure, it’ll take longer sometimes. But you don’t have the fuckin’ right to ask me that question.”

Karkat nods slowly. ( _Okay. So that was a pretty shitty question, admittedly. And it’s apparently a sore subject. Don’t do that again._ ) “Sorry.”

Dave replaces his shades and shifts his position slightly. A ( _disappointed...? distraught…?_ ) huff escapes him as he props the door open for Karkat. He remains silent until Karkat has passed through and speaks only once the door has clicked shut. “Just so we’re on the same page, I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Vantas.” ( _Last names… For someone as casual as Dave, last names are either really good or really bad. And you get the feeling that this is the latter._ ) “I can put up with a whole lot of shit, but the only person who gets to tell me what I’m not capable of doing is my goddamned self. Got it?”

Another slow nod.

And, oddly enough, Dave seems to immediately return to his usual, disinterested self. The same look of perpetual apathy returns and, for the rest of the short seven minute journey to the art building, there’s a tense silence.

And that silence lasts until the exact moment that class starts.

The instructor for this course appears on time. Perfectly on time. He introduces himself in a terse, dismissive way as Professor Scratch. By his posture, it’s obvious that he’s not here to take shit from people; he’s here to do his job and get a paycheck. As he hands out the easels, this fact only becomes clearer.

With an upright disregard for much of anything, he drops the odd, cylindrical bags—which, out of context, might look like tiny miniguns or another, similar weapon—at everyone’s feet. By the time he gets to Dave, only the tallest one remains. Even now, completely folded for storage, this bag is at least four feet tall.

Naturally, Dave voices his objection. It’s—at least to Karkat—surprisingly civil. His voice lacks any sort of sarcasm and, overall, he seems to be trying to be generally respectful. “Professor… Scratch?” he hesitates, taking a minute to find the name. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but this easel is kind of big.”

“Your point, kid?”

Dave winces at the word. ( _‘Kid.’ What does that word mean to him?_ ) “My name’s Dave Strider, sir.”

“Wonderful.” By now, he’s gathered the few books he brought with him and holds them under his arm. “Life sucks sometimes. Deal with it.”

“Mine is too short,” Karkat volunteers quickly. ( _You might be short, but a two foot tall fully folded easel is pushing it._ ) “Dave can have...”

“Every one of you has a numbered easel,” the professor’s voice is loud and commanding. It fills the room and echoes. “If you do not return the number I recorded, you will be fined for that easel.”

Dave, by now, has backed up a good two feet from the man in the middle of the room. “There… There isn’t…?” The hesitancy from before returns. There’s a brief glimpse into the mind of the true Dave Strider and, just like last time, it’s obvious that the real Dave isn’t as cocky and confident as he seems. “There’s no way for me to trade with someone?”

To this, the professor rolls his eyes. “No.” It’s a booming, succinct answer.

And, for some reason, words rise from deep within Karkat’s chest. Those words burst forth like a plume of flame. An explosion of energy whose source Karkat can’t quite place. “Hey! _Pompis_.”

The professor, frowning, turns. “You have something to say?”

“Yeah. I sure as fucking hell do.” Karkat leans over and grabs Dave’s easel. They also check their own. Some quick calculations… Two hundred fifty. It’s marked on each bag in white. A bit much for some shitty sacks with plastic stands inside; but, then again, isn’t everything about art expensive as fuck? They pull their wallet out and produce from it the money their mother had given them. ( _“For emergencies and textbooks,” she’d said as she handed over three hundred goddamned dollars. At the time, it had seemed excessive. Now…_ ) “There’s your fucking money, _culero_.”

“Hm.” The reaction is surprisingly anticlimactic. Scratch merely shrugs and pockets the money-including the fifty extra dollars. “I suppose that’s acceptable. I’ll keep the extra in exchange for not reporting your vulgar commentary to any other staff members.” A small, strangely pleased smile spreads across his face. “Your assignment is to paint a scene of what surrounds this building. Good luck.”

 

* * *

 

Outside, the wind is light and the air is warm. There's that slight hint of winter—a tiny breath of cold. The sun shines brightly in a clear sky and it’s a picture perfect day. If there was ever a time to take a postcard photo, it would be now.

Yet, not surprisingly, Dave is less than thrilled.

He sits in front of his paper, which he’s used artist’s tape to secure to a cardboard panel for sturdiness, with his brush ready in his dominant left hand. Paint thinner drips from its tip and splatters against his dirty red Converse shoes. In his right hand, he holds a cloth for wiping off his brush as well as his palette. And, yet, he hasn’t made a single mark.

Karkat, sitting behind him, doesn’t notice. Why would they? They have their back to him.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“Hm?” While some of the students have carried folding chairs out with them, Karkat has opted to stand. They shift their position slightly as they speak. “Oh. _Sip_. I know. But that guy was a fucking bastard.”

( _The more people invest, the more they have to lose._ )

“Really… You didn’t have to. I might just drop the course.”

“ _No_. You need at least four classes to qualify for living on campus. And a flight to here from Texas is one fucking huge trek to make every day.” Karkat hums thoughtfully. Taps the end of their brush against their own primed page. “Besides, I bet Scratch’ll be fucking pissed if you turn in something that’s incomprehensibly amazing. And I’d pay to see that shit.”

“I’m not that great at painting. I haven’t actually tried it until now.”

“Hm?”

Dave jumps slightly as a warm, brown hand grabs his. He watches as Karkat guides him through a few basic ideas—broad, sweeping strokes which come together quickly to form a very, very roughed out image of the landscape before them. And, as this happens, there’s that familiar, burning itch. Without a free hand to suppress it, his leg bounces erratically for a few moments. He feels the heat rushing to his cheeks.

( _Karkat’s a dude, right? Of course. Otherwise they wouldn’t be rooming with you. And you're Dave fuckin’ Strider. You can’t feel this way about another guy. That’s… That’s gay. It’s gross. It’s everything that Bro taught you was wrong and immoral and evil. You can’t be gay. Even if Bro is an asshole, you can’t ruin the family name—a name that rests solely on your shoulders, now—by being gay._

 _No. Of course not._  

_You like Jade._

_You love Jade._

_…right?_ )

To Karkat’s obvious shock, Dave pulls free of their grip. He quickly collapses the easel and straps both it and his hastily packed bag onto his chair.

“What the fuck are you doing, Strider?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t—?”

“I’m fine,” Dave lies.

( _Rose. She always knows what to do. That’s how the Lalondes are. They’re stuck up and haughty, but they’re smart. They’re smarter than you. She’ll know what to do…_ )

 

* * *

 

“Hey… Is Dave here?”

Karkat frowns as their gaze meets Jade’s vivid green eyes. “Nope. Sorry. Come back later, maybe?” With this said, they move to close the door.

Jade, however, has different plans. And, it is now that Karkat learns her strength. She forces the door open easily and overpowers them with little effort. “Well, when he comes back, tell him I dropped by.”

“I… Okay…” ( _Holy shit. This cheerful goddamned Disney princess can kick your ass._ ) “Um… I’m not sure when he’ll be back, though, so…”

Jade nods. She pulls out a piece of paper and a green pen—one of those fancy G2 gel pens—and scribbles her Pesterchum handle across it. She folds it carefully and hands it to Karkat. “Give him that, too, if you have the time.”

“I… will…” Karkat mutters. ( _Who the hell is this? Why is she so fucking cheerful?_ )

As if to confirm Karkat’s thoughts, Jade chuckles quietly. She offers a casual wave and releases her hold on the door. “I’ll see you later, Karkat.”

“Yeah…”

 

* * *

 

“It sounds to me like you’re bisexual.” Rose’s voice always has confidence. And, unlike Dave’s, it’s real. She prides herself in her words and knowledge. She knows what she’s worth.

And, as he sits on her bed, nervously twiddling his thumbs, all of this hits Dave like a cannonball. It tears another hole in the already crumbling tapestry of what he considers to be himself. “I can’t be… That’s, like, half gay.”

A groan of annoyance from Rose. She folds her arms and leans her shoulder against the nearby wall. “No, it’s bisexual. Perhaps pansexual. If Karkat marked other as their gender, I’d be willing to say you’re pansexual.”

“I… I want to fuck pans?” Dave laughs nervously. It’s no different from his other laughs—it’s fake and forced.

“You’re unbiased is how I would say it. And that’s a wonderful thing. You can connect with anyone.”

“But… I like Jade. I can’t like Karkat, too. I mean…”

“You can like more than one person.” Rose sighs and flips through a nearby desktop calendar. Various dates are marked in pristine pink cursive as important. Tests and due dates and planned outings with Kanaya. “Look, if this is about what that bastard, Bro, told you, then I have a question. That would make me gay, right?”

“I guess?” Dave frowns. ( _Where the hell is she going with this?_ )

“And are Kanaya and I actively destroying the world? Are we causing global sociopolitical failure and economic collapse?”

By now unconcerned with putting up his usual act, Dave smirks. He snickers. “No. I guess not. But… You can’t have both, right? You have to pick a side.”

“Kanaya thinks you’re cute.” Rose shrugs.

Dave feels himself blushing. An overwhelming need to disappear comes over him. “Oh… I… That’s… Flattering?” ( _You don't even like yourself._ _How could other people like you?_ ) “Thanks… I guess…”

“No problem.” Rose smiles. It’s a small, subtle gesture that always reminds Dave of the Mona Lisa. ( _Is she really smiling?_ )


	7. How do I say "fuck you" in galaxy language?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Garnet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wxcrm1DXA2M)**  
>  Hanaka Oku | 奥 華子  
>  ** _The Girl Who Leapt Through Time_** (2006) | lol what label is this
> 
>  
> 
> [ **Cruel Angel's Thesis | Acoustic Guitar Cover** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oS_yNsDsbaQ)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like really i just want to tell the entire universe   
>  from the bottom of my fuckin heart   
>  fuck you you massive piece of trash

( _Bad idea, Strider. This was a damned awful idea. Terrible idea. No good. Zero out of ten would never do again. Ever._ )

“Is there any reason you’ve gotten yourself at least eight pancakes for breakfast?”

( _Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays are stuffed to hell. Shouldn’t have done that. But nothing starts too early. Nothing until 10. Chinese film, guitar, and art. And, now, today, this goddamned date._

_And, of course, the certified class from Hell—yes, with that capital “H”—is on Tuesdays and Thursdays._ )

“Dave?”

( _Oh shit._ )

Dave jumps. He drops his fork and watches with a strange mix of apathy and annoyance as it skids to a spot where he can’t reach it. The Dead Zone, as he calls it. It’s not far enough for him to be able to bend over and get it, but it’s too close for him to be able to snag it without losing his balance. It sure as hell doesn’t help that it’s fallen in front of him rather than to the side. Still, it seems to him like a shitty move to make Jade help him out on their first… ( _Is this a date? No… Friends. Just friends right now._ )

He backs up until the wall behind him prevents him from going further. Sure, he can move out of the space and into the aisle; but, it’s the breakfast rush. He’s not about to hold anyone up to get a fork he’ll inevitably throw away. ( _The kid with the Mohawk in physical therapy had some tips. Lean forward, hand on the floor…_ )

A yelp of surprise escapes him. He prepares to begin the day with another bruise to accompany his already blackened eye ( _though that is healing nicely_ ) and, instead, Jade catches him with inches to spare between his face and the edge of the table. From him comes a sigh of relief.

“You okay, Dave?”

He nods. He grabs the table’s edge and pushes off of it to straighten his back. “Yeah. Fine.” A nervous, forced, but not-exactly-fake laugh. “Nice catch.”

“Thanks.” Jade flashes a wide grin. “Did you just tip a little too far or…?”

Dave shrugs. He stares at his stack of pancakes and motions for Jade to wait while he leaves to retrieve a new fork.

( _Idiot. You’re an idiot, Strider. Bro’s right. You’re a loser._ )

“No.” He says it aloud to reassure himself as he plucks his new utensil from its bin and returns to the table. And, as he settles back into place, he offers a casual explanation. After all, why would it be anything but casual? It’s an everyday thing like taking a shower or hoping that the moon really is made of sweet, voluptuous cheese. “I’ve got, like, zippo core control.”

A smile that’s skewed to one side and a shrug. That always makes people feel more at ease. Then, as he’s done many times before, Dave uses his free hand—in this case, the one not occupied by a massive serving of syrup-drenched pancakes—to draw a line across a spot that’s just below his chest. “It’s mostly cut there and you’ll be fuckin’ spot on with what’s useful.”

“Oh.” Jade’s response isn’t intrusive. It’s not condescending or sad. ( _It’s just… A reply. A noise of surprise. At… Something._ ) “That would make an interesting tattoo.”

( _So that was what prompted the surprise?_ )

“Probably.” Dave shrugs and proceeds to stuff his face with his well-earned pancakes. “I’d go slightly higher or lower, though. Around there is kind of finicky.”

“Would you actually get the tattoo, or are you just shitting me right now?” Jade smirks.

Dave’s heart and stomach do a graceless one-eighty. “Probably not. I’d rather get something more useful. Like a bar code on my ass.” ( _This isn’t going half bad. She’s as easy to talk to as John._ ) “Y’know, you’d scan it and it’d say something like… ‘Lost child. Please return to your nearest music store.’”

“You’re a dork, Dave Strider.” With that said, Jade laughs. ( _Oh fuck. Jesus, take the wheel and put this goddamn thing on autopilot into the sun._ ) She begins to work on her own breakfast—a stack of waffles drizzled lightly with syrup and crisscrossed artfully with thin lines of caramel. ( _Who the fuck takes that much time to make something that’s going into their fucking mouth?_ )

And Dave takes the opportunity to start eating his own breakfast.

After all, if there’s one thing that ruins his day immediately, it’s a sad, cold pancake.

 

* * *

 

Everyone has been paired up and told to work together on some sort of shitty little worksheet about colonial lifestyles. While most people seem to have no idea who their partner is, Karkat feels they have the upper hand.

At the very least, they know John.

And John seems to know enough about them.

“Did you actually do the reading?”

Karkat frowns. Looks up, towards John, and ends up taking particular note of his guilty smirk. ( _Fuck. He has dimples. Abort mission, Vantas. Abort mission._ ) “Yes. Why? It’s the first fucking class and you didn’t do the goddamned reading?”

A nonchalant shrug—something that Dave might do. “Colonial history is boring and crappy.”

“I can agree with you there, Egbert.”

“Yeah. So why the hell are we in this class?” John rolls his eyes. He flips through his own notebook and begins sketching out what seems to be a design for some sort of impractical and impossible airship. “I mean… We both read the description and still sent in our class attendance pigeons.”

“Are you still going on about pigeons?” Karkat can’t help but smirk at the commentary. “But, yeah, I don’t know why the fuck I bothered.”

John nods sagely—as if he has just dropped the most enlightened shit since the Dali Lama—before lowering his voice. “What’re your feelings on Binns? He seems like an old fart to me.”

“Same.”

“Really?”

Both Karkat and John freeze.

The instructor—with his illogical facial structure and build—stands behind the latter of the two. Oddly enough, he’s smirking. “Interesting. Not the worst I’ve been called.” He shrugs and, humming some odd, off-tune melody, he wanders off.

Karkat and John proceed to exchange confused glances.

And, in that minute, Karkat feels their heart skip a beat. ( _No one’s goddamned eyes should be so pretty. So pristinely blue._ ) They deliberately and forcefully end the mutual connection before turning to their own sparse notes on a reading so dense that even they couldn’t understand it.

 

* * *

 

When Dave Strider finally returns to his own dorm, he finds that Karkat has lofted their bed. And, as of now, they’re perched atop this newly formed nest like some sort of strange, proud avian. “Aw. You’re no fun.”

“Hm?” Karkat leans over enough for Dave to see their face from beneath the bed.

“I can’t talk shit to you if you’re all the way up there in… I don’t fucking know. The land of people who can climb ladders. Because, goddammit, that’s a place as of now.”

Karkat rolls their eyes and retreats to a spot where Dave can’t see them. However, they continue talking. “How was your date or whatever the fuck it was?”

“It wasn’t awful.” Dave shrugs. He breathes in. As he lifts himself into the bed, he holds his breath and, once he’s securely atop the mattress, he lets forth a long sigh. “Don’t you have class with John?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t move to somewhere where I can actually see you?”

“Nope.”

Despite his response, Dave finds himself smirking. “Jackass.”

“Thanks. I fucking try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **did u know™** that whenever karkat vantas is around the wind will whisper "gaaaaaay"
> 
> also i am procrastinating hurray


	8. "This looseleaf won't lose itself"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Time Travel (Piano Ver.)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmY9Dy3zJUA)  
>  Tomohito Nishiura | 西浦 智仁  
>  ** _Professor Layton & the Unwound Future_** (2008) | Level-5
> 
>  
> 
> [ **Ride on Shooting Star | Acoustic Guitar Cover** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwsP2dX4kp0)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah lose those notes throw them all over the fuckin place   
>  yeah hi my name is dave strider you want some notes

“Hey. Dave.”

( _It’s Friday, right? Yeah. Friday. It’s Friday evening. Classes are over. You’ve survived the class taught by Satan’s right-hand man and, now, you’re free. You have the weekend to yourself._ )

“Hm?” Dave looks away from the canvas he’s working on and freezes as his eyes fall upon Jade. She’s wearing a long, flowing sleeveless dress. It’s a pleasant washed-out green color. Like the underside of a leaf. ( _Fuck._ ) His hand is shaking slightly as he lowers the brush. “Jade?”

“Karkat gave you my Pesterchum, right?” She stops about a foot away. Her hands seem to automatically fold behind her back and her smile—to be clichéd as hell—seems as bright as the sun which is setting behind her. “You don’t seem to be online much lately.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m really… not… I…”

“You’re painting your pants, you know.”

( _Loser. Worthless loser. Worthless, pathetic loser. Why do you try?_ )

Dave blinks. He stares down at his jeans, only to realize that Jade is right. “Fuck. These are my only casual pants…”

“Really?” Jade frowns. It’s something that, despite the fact that he’s only ever known her online through forums and chat rooms, jabs at his heart. It’s like a rusty knife twisting in his gut. ( _Is that… pity? Concern?_ ) “Maybe your family could bring some up for you this weekend.”

“I… don’t really…” Dave backs away instinctively. He winces as he hits the easel and the piece on which the canvas rests digs into his back. “My parents died when I was a kid and Bro is… Well… Bro’s in jail and he’s not getting out any time soon. Because, y’know, severing spinal cords isn’t generally accepted as noncriminal behavior.” A nervous, forced laugh.

Jade’s frown grows. The rusted knife digs deeper. “Oh. Well… Why didn’t you just say so? My family’s not really much of anything, either. I’m sharing with John. He’d be happy to share his dad with you, too.” As if it was nothing, the frown disappears. A cheerful, welcoming smile replaces it.

And, yet, the knot in Dave’s stomach remains. “That’s a bit… much… Stretching John’s dad between three people. “Karkat said they’d share their family, so…”

( _That was actually a pretty nice lie, Strider. Now, prove it._ )

 

* * *

 

“You want what?” Karkat groans from where they’re perched atop their lofted bed. “Sure, Mom and Dad are cool; but, Kankri is a real bastard. Huge, overinflated jackass. I’m sure there’s no brain there. It’s just flowery arguments and hot fucking air.” They roll over so that they can peer over the edge. “Why?”

Dave, in return, smiles sheepishly. “I _might_ have told Jade that you would share your family with me?” he mutters.

“And why the fuck would you do that, you butt-scratching dimwit?” Karkat grumbles. They roll their eyes.

“Because I’m legally classified as an orphan?” A shrug. An innocent whistle. “C’mon, roomie, favor for a favor?”

Smirking, Karkat flops back to a spot where they know they’re out of Dave’s field of vision. “Yeah. How about you get me hooked up with John and I’ll let you borrow my shitty family for five minutes?”

“Deal.” Another pause. A nervous laugh—one that, again, doesn’t exactly sound fake; but, it’s not perfectly honest, either. “You have any extra pants?”

“Ew. Why?”

“I painted on myself. Jade pointed it out. And oil paint is like goddamned ketchup. Or wine. Or spaghetti. It never comes out. You can be dead and rotting in the fuckin’ ground and your pants will still have goddamned oil paint on them.”

Again, Karkat rolls their eyes. “Fine. Sure. Whatever.”

“You’re the best roommate ever, Kark.”

“You call me that again and your only roommate will be whatever the fuck is stuck in the concrete foundation of this place.” A yawn. Karkat stretches their arms above their head. ( _A nap. That shouldn’t hurt, right? Just a few minutes…_ )


	9. "Introducing yourself is for losers"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Let it Out**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSIHK94IFiM)  
>  Fukuhara Miho | 福原 美穂  
>  _ **Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood**_ (2009)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just assume everyone already knows you

It’s not as if Karkat Vantas resents their parents. In fact, they sing praises in their favor when it comes down to it; but, if anything, their parents are… Embarassing.

Their father, who goes by Crabdad, is the head chef of some fancy seafood restaurant where crabs are the main dish. Their mother, Dolorosa, is a retired lawyer whose earnings have allowed the family to live a fairly comfortable life.

Hands down, though, the worst of the family is Kankri.

So, then, imagine Karkat’s absolute elation—which, of course, they hid in front of their parents—when Kankri isn’t actually there to meet them at noon in the fountain plaza. Or… Is he? They open their mouth to ask the question and their mother, always the more talkative of the two, butts in.

“Kankri came down with the flu a few days ago, Karkat. He said he’d love to be here to say hello, though.”

( _Great. Now keep the jackass at home._ ) “Well that sucks.” It’s an awful lie. And, judging by their father’s side-eyed glance, it’s not exactly a convincing one. Although, unlike their mother, their father isn’t too keen on Kankri, either. “I’m happy you two could make it though.”

“That’s great, Karkat. What the fuck do they have to do around here?”

( _Well… Dad’s never been one to censor himself._ )

“Fuck if I know.”

( _And… The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…_ )

By now, Dolorosa looks to be at least mildly horrified. She doesn’t comment, however. “And you said that your roommate wants to meet us, right?”

Karkat shudders. “Yeah. He should be waiting back in the dorm. Just let me…”

_Calling Dave Strider…_

“You’ve got a whole total of ten fucking minutes to not be in your underwear.” The message is succinct, direct, and—at least in their opinion—abrasive enough to grab Dave’s attention.

And, in reply to the phone call, their father snickers. Dolorosa rolls her eyes.

 

* * *

 

( _They’re nice enough._

_Crabdad is obviously the one Karkat got their personality from. He’s the origin point of Karkat’s brown skin and thick, black brows. He’s the origin point of Karkat’s stern expression._

_And, then, there’s Dolorosa. She seems to mean well. But, as a whole, it’s hard for you to believe she’s even related to Karkat. She’s so damned peppy. Though, her genes are there. Karkat has her thick, slightly curly black hair._

_They wouldn’t make bad in-laws._

_Oh. No. No. Hell no. That shouldn’t be a thought you should be having, Strider._

_Shut up, Strider—no, goddammit._

_Stop arguing with yourself._ )

“Dave?”

( _And it’s Jade. Again. Why does she always show up when you’re hosting the sickest mental beatings on yourself?_ ) She wears the dress from yesterday.

“Oh! There we go! You’ve checked back into reality! Welcome back.”

Turning his gaze slightly further ahead, Dave sees a man who looks remarkably like John.

He’s much taller, though. Much, much taller. He’s clean-shaven and holds himself with poise and confidence. He has John’s sky blue eyes, though his hair is hidden beneath a white fedora. “Is it safe for me to try again?”

John snickers.

The man presumably takes this as a confirmation of his suspicion. Like John, he doesn’t seem to talk without occupying his hands. While John gesticulates, he pulls from his pocket an old pipe and fiddles absentmindedly with it. “Name’s Jake,” he says simply. Cheerfully. “Nice to finally meet the guy that John always talked to online.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Egbert.”

The man snickers. He wanders over to Karkat’s parents and seems to engage them in mindless conversation. After a few moments, the trio begins to invest themselves in the discussion.

And, naturally, all three students take advantage of the chance to escape.

“Where the hell is the food?” Dave mutters as he skids to a stop next to John. ( _Sprinklers suck and mud is bullshit._ )

John replies with a sly grin. He leads the group to an unoccupied picnic table and produces from his backpack an obscene amount of food. Foil-wrapped burgers and hot dogs, chicken wings, and barbeque sandwiches. “The line is fucking ridiculous, so I just snagged this while I was there.”

Seeing as his mouth had started watering the minute his eyes fell upon the wings, Dave pounces. He snags an armful of the Styrofoam-encased meat and immediately rips into a box.

Next to him, Karkat responds with a disgusted growl. “Jesus fucking Christ. Calm down. No one is going to take your food.”

“Bro would,” Dave shrugs. Despite the fact that he knows Bro is in jail—a jail which is, by the way, all the way in goddamned Texas—it’s just his natural reaction.

Jade, meanwhile, has opted to take the few boxed salads that John had grabbed. She pops one open and hums in joyous surprise. “This one’s got orange slices in it. How fancy.”

“Yeah. They’re busting their asses on the first day,” John laughs. ( _Why is his laugh so nice? Why is it so damned nice?_ ) “Watch the food quality go down the shitter soon.”

“Whatever.” Karkat rolls their eyes. They hesitantly grab a single burger.

And Dave, without really thinking about it, snickers. “Grab more so we’ll have shit to eat when John’s prophecy comes true.”

“The prophecy is nigh, Dave,” John interjects.

“Yeah? And you’re a fuckin’ dork.” ( _A damned cute one, too._ ) “You’re not eating anything?”

“They had peanuts everywhere.” John shrugs. “I’m not sure what they touched, so…”

“Oh yeah. The whole thing about dying if you eat a peanut. Which sucks, because peanuts are the fuckin’ shit.”

Jade laughs. She pushes Dave playfully—though, she has more power than she realizes. Dave has to catch himself by the right wheel of his chair to steady himself. ( _You should probably warn her about that._ ) “Don’t taunt him, Dave. That’s awful.”

“Yeah?” Karkat’s tone is fairly flat; but, somehow, Dave gets a sense that their commentary isn’t intended to be taken seriously. “Dave’s just an awful guy.”

So, rather than waste his time and energy getting offended, Dave snickers. He continues to consume chicken wings at a speed which John deems to be impossible, “unless, of course, Dave is an alien.”

Some standard friendship bullshit ensues and, as a whole, the day goes well.

For once, Dave feels like he belongs somewhere. He has friends. And, as far as he’s aware, those friends like him; unlike in high school, he likes them, too. They treat him like their equal and aren’t uptight with what they say to him.

( _Maybe there’s a place for you after all, Strider._ )

 

* * *

 

It’s pretty fucking late by the time Dave has finished showering and getting ready for bed.

And, yet, somehow, he’s yet to get sick from eating all of those chicken wings.

It’s a situation which baffles Karkat.

( _How can someone his size eat so many goddamned chicken wings? Where the fuck did they go? Is his stomach some sort of inexplicable void from which not even heaven itself could return if it was absorbed?_ )

“Thanks for letting me leech off your family.”

Karkat nods dismissively as they continue scanning through some awful clickbait article on their phone.

“I liked it. It was nice having adults actually give two shits about me, y’know?”

( _This sounds way better than whatever this damned trash website is._ ) “So… You lived with your brother…?”

“From pretty early on, yeah. Not sure of the specifics. I got to go to preschool and shit. Well… I shat at preschool, probably, but… you know what I mean.” Dave smirks, obviously proud of his own joke.

Karkat, unwilling to encourage him, rolls their eyes. “Well. At least you learned that much.”

“Bro taught me some crap.” Dave shrugs, though his voice has taken on a mildly defensive tone. “Math and science and all that goddamned bullshit.” Here, the defensiveness is replaced with decisive disgust. “Really, though, the bastard was only good for teaching me how to fuckin’ fight. Not that using swords in modern brawls is even a legitimate option. Like, yes, hello. Please cease punching me while I find and then draw and then wield this phallic metal slicing device.”

Despite their best efforts, Karkat bursts out laughing. ( _To be honest, though, your laugh isn’t that bad. You’re one of those people who—once you reach a point—you just end up gasping in between hoarse chuckles._ )

“The Mighty Vantas has a heart! Amazing!”

Through their laughter, Karkat manages to eke forth a reply. “Shut your damned mouth, Strider.”

“And, apparently, the Mighty Vantas lacks any sort of worthwhile defense.”

“Whatever.” Karkat sighs and, after a few more seconds, manages to calm themself  to the point that they’re not laughing quite as much. “You’re a douchebag, Strider. Go join the fucking WWE. Dave ‘The Douche’ Strider is in the ring.”

“Oh, yeah, and I’ll just slice all the other turnip-muscled sweaty dudes in half with a sword. That’s wrestling-legal, right?” A quick glance in his direction reveals that Dave is smiling. And, for the first time, it’s absolutely genuine. There’s no holding back. And, as this realization dawns upon Karkat, they freeze.

( _Oh shit. There goes the only shred of sound advice Kankri has ever given you. “Don’t fall for your roommate.” Well… Too late, now. Presumably, the best you can do at this point is try and latch onto someone else. Not that it’ll help._ )


	10. "Donuts are gifts from heaven"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[I Love You Too Much](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViwJ2b6cHKo)**  
>  Diego Luna  
>  ** _The Book of Life_** (2012) | Sony Masterworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really theyre straight up miracles

Seeing little else to do, Karkat tagged along with Dave on his quest to visit the local coffee shop.

They followed him across a surprisingly busy street with no goddamned stoplight, nearly got hit by a car, and watched as Dave casually pinned perhaps the most passive-aggressive note they’ve ever seen to an unlicensed car parked in the disabled spot.

“You’re not even parking here. Do you even have a car?” they had asked.

To which Dave replied with a disinterested shrug. “Mid-eighties Ford LTD. And I don’t give a damn if I’m not parking here, I’m letting whatever fuckwad parked here that they’re a shitty person.”

Now, though, they sit at a small two-person table with Dave.

And, at his space across the table, Dave absentmindedly stirs the iced coffee he’d purchased. He hums to himself. It’s not a song that Karkat recognizes; but, perhaps, that’s because they don’t listen to much music. They’re more for quiet environments.

The song he seems to be recalling, however, is oddly melancholy. It’s the sort of song people play at funerals when they’re trying to remember happy things. The type of song that’s sung at the end of bittersweet movies. ( _You hate those movies._ )

"You know… You didn’t order anything.”

Karkat looks up. Their eyes meet the mirror of Dave’s shades. “Because I don’t want anything?” ( _What sort of question is this?_ )

“Makes enough sense.”

For the first time, something catches Karkat’s eye. It’s a thin golden chain around Dave’s neck and, at its end, there’s a tiny cross. A fairly standard Christian cross. And, at least to Karkat, this seems odd. They never would have pegged Dave as religious. Hell, until now, they’d assumed he was atheist. Or agnostic. Either. But certainly not option number three.

And, as it seems, Dave senses this. He offers a tiny half smile and tugs at the chain, bringing the cross to a place where it stands out better against his plain white shirt. “This thing’s old.”

“So… You’re not…?”

“No. I am.” Dave shrugs. It’s as if he thinks himself to be a standard issue Christian—someone who acts in a way that wouldn’t warrant obvious confusion about their beliefs. “Actually, I came here because the next service isn’t until two.”

“That sounds like a fucking weird time to have a… mass?” Karkat hesitates as they try and find the appropriate term. “Aren’t they usually in the morning or at, like, 11:30?”

“Oh. Definitely.” After backing away a bit from the table, Dave offers an indifferent nod. He cracks his knuckles—something which causes Karkat enough discomfort to make them look away—and continues, “I was going to go try out around here. If I don’t like it, I won’t go. But there’s no way in hell I’m waking my ass up earlier than noon on a Sunday.”

“That’s… some… dedication?” ( _Is this just casual conversation? Is he trying to make a point? You’re not quite sure what’s happening right now._ )

“You can come if you want.”

Without really meaning to, Karkat scoffs at the idea. They turn their nose up and fold their arms across their chest. “Like I’d ever set foot into a church again,” they say. They get a sense that they should stop there; but, for some reason, they keep talking. “And you’d be the last fucker I would’ve pegged as going to church.” Even as the words leave their mouth, they know they’ve said something wrong. And, yet, they don’t stop.

And, stranger still, Dave doesn’t seem to react in any way that’s beyond his usual teaspoon-sized range of emotions. “Fair enough.” He backs away a bit more. Checks his watch. “Okay. Well, it’s close to time to leave. I’ll see you later, dude.”

 

* * *

 

When he was thirteen, Dave Strider managed to sneak out of the apartment. Admittedly, he still feels bad about how he did it. He’d drugged his own brother, albeit a shitty brother. Slipped a pocketful of sleeping pills into his coffee—the coffee he was told to make every morning and evening and leave on the table. ( _Too hot, you’d get beaten for trying to hurt him. Too cold, he’d beat you for serving bullshit._ )

Not that he had much of an idea of what to do once he left.

He spent most of the night roaming aimlessly through a sleeping town. He’d escaped around six. By midnight, he was bored out of his mind. He found himself sitting in an empty and long-since-deserted bus stop. And, at some point, a cheerful old woman by the name of Ms. Paint sat on the bench next to him.

They spoke for about an hour.

And, yes, he’s aware of how creepy the story sounds. He knows it’s bad practice to converse with random strangers late at night; he’d been mugged the fourth time he’d managed to escape. But, really, he’d never been exposed to strangers. He truly believed that anyone he met was better than Bro.

That night, though, nothing happened.

Ms. Paint invited him to attend mass with her that Sunday.

And, not knowing better, Dave accepted.

He’d drugged his brother again and ended up being entranced by the ceremony.

Honestly, even now, he only knows a tiny bit of what the whole thing is about. And he’s not really sure he believes it.

But he loved the ritual. The predictable way that things always advanced.

And, so, whenever he could, he would do the same thing.

Drug his brother, wait at the bus stop for Ms. Paint to pick him up, and go under the name of Dirk—a name he’ll admit to pulling out of his ass.

Now, though, it occurs to him that he’ll be able to use his own name…

 

* * *

 

Dave returns to the room around four.

He comes armed with a dozen donuts from a family-owned place nearby.

“The fuck are those for?” It’s Karkat’s immediate reaction. ( _What the hell is he doing?_ )

And, to this, Dave offers a wide grin. He motions for Karkat to descend from his spot atop his bed. “I had some extra money. Thought I’d pick something up for us.”

“What do you want for them?” With a fair amount of hesitation, Karkat climbs down from their bed. As their feet hit the solid floor, they face Dave.

His face is as unreadable as always. When he speaks, there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. “Seriously, dude, it’s nothing. Just get a fuckin’ donut.”

“You want something, Strider.” Karkat folds their arms across their chest. ( _This is what Kankri does. He’ll come in with some sort of treat and jump Karkat with requests to sign petitions and pledges the minute he tries to take a bite._ ) “Just tell me what it is.”

“I don’t know?” He’s genuinely confused, now. It’s obvious in his voice. “Your friendship? You’re pretty cute.” He freezes. Like a rising thermometer, his cheeks turn a vibrant pink. He laughs awkwardly—forcefully.

Unsure of how to respond and feeling the oppressive pressure to answer quickly, Karkat simply ignores the comment. They commit it to memory, though, before stepping forward and grabbing a donut. ( _They’re soft and doughy. Thick. Heavy. It’s like sponge cake; and, that’s not bad. You’ve always liked those types of donuts._ )

Dave, with a sigh of relief, bites into his own. He promptly proceeds to chug the cup of whatever beverage he’d ordered. “Jesus. That’s awful.”

“Isn’t using the Lord’s name in vain one of the sins or whatever?” Karkat mutters.

Dave nods. “You’d have to be Jesus to like these damned things.”

A shrug. Karkat leans forward and takes another. They wrap it in a napkin and places it on their desk for later. “Then consider me your savior,” they snicker. “Thanks, Strider.” They pause. They bury their free hand in their pocket and lower their gaze to the floor. “I guess you’re not half bad for an insufferable douchebag.”

To this, Dave offers a smile. Another charming, genuine gesture of appreciation. “Thanks, dude.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Strider.” ( _He’s already cocky as fuck. No reason to inflate his head further._ )


	11. "Leave a message after these sick beats"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[I've Just Seen A Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GthspGw9F_A)**  
>  Jim Sturgess  
>  ** _Across the Universe_** (2007) | Interscope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no im not laying down sick beats today   
>  unfortunately   
>  today i am just laying down   
>  good night everyone peace out

By Dave’s standards, medicine is a whole lot of conspiracy-level bullshit. Poke a few needles into a person, pump in some weird chemicals, and they die, get high, or feel better. Possibly some of all of those. It’s something he’s never been fond of and hasn’t really been exposed to all that much. After all, it’s not like Bro would take him to the hospital.

In fact, the only time he ever went to the hospital was after The Incident, which happened well over a decade ago. And Bro only took him then because he started yelling loud enough for there to be a real concern of alerting the people living on the floor below them.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust medicine. He just doesn’t like being on the receiving end of it. And, considering the fact that he’s pretty much stuck awkwardly rubbing shoulders with medical help for the rest of his life, this just so happens to be a mild problem.

See, it all started way back whenever ( _preferably with the trademark symbol afterwards, as such—Way Back Whenever™_ ). It’s a story he generally keeps to himself and only ever gently scratches from time to time.

After the initial strife and resultant injury, Bro had said something about him being weak and incompetent and dumped him on the sofa.

Which, by Dave’s own calculations at the time, was fine by him. It meant no more so-called strifing until some unidentified point in the future. So, at the time, he contented himself with falling asleep. And that plan worked perfectly until he woke up however many hours later feeling the worst he had and—even now—has ever felt. ( _Preferably, this should also be emphasized with unnecessarily added symbols. Because you absolutely felt The Worst Ever™._ ) That’s about when the yelling started.

He doesn’t remember what he yelled. Considering the fact that he was roughly eight years old, alone, in a high-rise apartment, and terrified out of his mind, it was probably nonsense. Hysterical bullshit that, in hindsight, might have been pretty interesting to listen to after the fact. As it was happening, though, it definitely wasn’t interesting; it was what Dave truly believed to be the end of his life.

The main problem was pain. Strangely enough.

It’s never really made sense to Dave. No matter how many times doctors tell him—often in varying degrees of condescending of the “clearly, you must have the mental capacity of a walnut if you don’t understand me” variety—he can’t get his head around the reason for it. And that might be because, as that one really rad doctor he liked in Houston once admitted, no one is really sure why it happens.

Since then, it’s been fairly consistent.

Take some medicine, put up with the constant feeling of nausea, and tolerate it.

Normally, it’s little more than a nuisance. He’s lived longer with it than without it; and, really, he can’t remember the last time it wasn’t there. It’s little more than an occasionally annoying itch—sometimes, it’s a strange, unpleasant prickling. ( _You’ve described it to John via Pesterchum before. Usually, the resultant conclusion from the recipient of said explanation is that feeling people get when they’ve been on their asses or in weird and probably unnecessary positions for too long and their insert-body-part-here goes to sleep. You know the feeling. Vaguely. You kind of remember it._ ) But, beyond that, it’s little more than what he often refers to as “background radiation.” Constant, asinine bullshit he puts up with every day. Like people using him as an armrest or talking down to him. ( _Or the low-key disappointment when the cafeteria isn’t serving pigs in a blanket. And this is, in your opinion, the most awful sort of constant disappointment. Mainly because that one kid in your school choked on a shitload of the little fuckers when you were in first grade and they got banned. BUT, you digress…_ )

From time to time, it flares up again. ( _And that is it as in It™ but with no relationship to Stephen King because you don’t really give a fuck about him and don’t want your thoughts sued for copyright infringement_ )

It’s an unbearable, burning pain which has neither a specific point of origin nor a focused location. Rather, it radiates and distributes itself evenly throughout every part of his body below the horizontal center of his chest. ( _Which is exactly why you refer to it as radiation. Because it radiates. Look at you, being so goddamn funny._ ) Though movement doesn’t really impact the pain, it’s enough to deter him from moving.

So, instead, he simply stares at the ceiling of the dorm room. Every now and then, he turns his head to look at the clock. And, in this manner, time slowly passes.

5:00: The birds start their daily screaming match.

5:30: Some asshole is riding a skateboard outside. There’s a sound of scraping, a loud profanity, and the undeniable thud of someone hitting the ground. It’s enough to prompt Dave to laugh—a decision which he comes to quickly regret.

6:00: Loud, heavy bass music starts playing somewhere down the hallway. ( _It is six in the fuckin’ morning on a fuckin’ Monday. Go the fuck to sleep._ )

7:45: Landscaping staff starts working. In the distance, Dave can hear a lawnmower going.

8:30: Movement. Sweet, sweet movement.

Karkat’s bedframe shifts as the upper portion of their mop of black hair appears in Dave’s field of vision. They yawn loudly, make their descent from the bed, and are passing by Dave when their still-groggy eyes focus on him. They frown. “You’re usually awake earlier. Skipping class to sleep or something?”

( _They’re less vulgar when they’re sleepy. Or just waking up. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. Note to self: Test theory later._ )

 

* * *

 

“It’s not skipping if it’s medically mandated.”

The first thing Karkat notices happens to be the tone of Dave’s voice. It’s strained and tense. And, then, there’s the way he’s positioned. Flat on his back, eyes awkwardly tilted towards them, rather than his usual habit of propping himself up on his elbow. Near where Karkat estimates his feet would be, the bedsheet twitches erratically.

( _Sure, he’s not your favorite person in the world. Hell, if you’re offered a new room, you’ll take it in a heartbeat. Because all this asshole is doing is confusing the hell out of you. But…_ ) “You okay?”

“Dandy. Perfectly dandy.” Dave freezes. His hands grab onto the sheets and hold onto them powerfully enough for his knuckles to turn a paler shade of white than they already are. Still, he manages a very obviously fake, forced laugh. “Really. Don’t worry about it. Just hand me my Hal.”

“Hal?”

“My laptop.” His grip on the comforter slowly eases. “Sorry. I call my laptop Hal. It’s stupid, I know, but…” He falls silent as Karkat hands over the laptop. And, then, he eyes them warily. “I’m fine, dude.”

“You look like you just got out of surgery. All you need is one of those fucking awful paper things with the butt flap for easy-access shitting.” They fold their arms across their chest and quirk their brow and, as they do this, they notice a strange sort of glint in Dave’s eyes. ( _Fear? Apprehension?_ ) They adjust their stance accordingly and put their hands in their pockets instead. ( _This seems to work. At least he doesn’t look ready to drop dead of a heart attack, now._ )

Dave shrugs. He opens his laptop and lets the sound of the clacking keys fill the silence. When he’s finished, however, his eyes slowly drift towards Karkat. He rolls his eyes and sighs. “What? You’re not my mother. My mother is dead. She pulled a fuckin’ anime mom on me. And my Dad’s the same fuckin’ way. Big, tough man has deep emotional problem so he dumps his whole damned family and leaves his two sons alone in the family apartment. What. Do. You. Want?” He slams the laptop shut and sets it atop his desk.

“Strider,” Karkat says, taking care to keep their voice soft and their body language approachable. ( _Why is he so damned reserved? What the fuck does he have to hide?_ )

Dave moves, seeming to reach for his shades before freezing as a badly stifled yelp of pain escapes him. He seems to try and convey exasperation through his facial expression, though it looks more like mild constipation. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

“Really?” asks Karkat, picking up the shades and handing them to Dave.

And, in return, Dave offers a disgusted _tch_. “Why would I tell you? It’s none of your business and I’d be preaching to a crowd of fuckin’ rocks.”

“Because I’m fine with helping, you fucking meathead.” A long, drawn-out sigh. ( _You didn’t sign up for this. You just wanted a nice room with a decent, boring, low-maintenance roommate._ ) “Where’d you get these absolutely fucked-over ideas of masculinity, anyhow? The toxic masculinity production plant? From the area so hazardous not even goddamned Rambo can enter without being magically labelled a woman?”

“That makes no fuckin’ sense. I learned it from my Bro.”

“You’re being ridiculous. You’ve gone beyond being the typical image-obsessed straight male, Strider.”

Dave opens his mouth to say something. However, it quickly slams shut. For some reason, he remains silent.

So, Karkat continues, “Look, Strider, you’re a complete asshole. I’d rather fuck a rooster than have to deal with your bullshit, but you’re a person—which, considering your poorly packaged sense of reality, might be a big shock to you. You have emotions. And, even more shockingly, that’s perfectly fucking normal. Nothing otherworldly about it. Everyone has emotions; presumably, even you, you clueless fuck.”

“Yeah. Sure. But _showing_ emotions is for c—s.”

“Gross.” Karkat gags. They promptly block the memory of the word they’ve just heard and force the discussion forwards, hopefully to a more progressive outcome. “If you just sit there like some sort of smug stone statue, you’re never going to get anywhere. You have to talk to people. Tell them shit. And, normally, people will help. Because, contrary to what you seem to believe, a lot of people are pretty fucking decent.”

A slow nod.

( _Progress?_ )

“Fine.” Dave’s tone is a mixture of annoyance and disgust. From his expression, it seems as if even considering what he’s about to do is enough to leave a sour taste in his mouth. “It’s something doctors refer to as neuropathic pain. It’s normal and constant and usually not as fuckin’ awful as this.”

“Is that something that should be concerning?” Karkat asks. ( _Keep him talking. Maybe you can get somewhere with this. After all, you’d feel less shitty about liking Dave if you knew more about him—about his faults and whatever the hell is beneath that shitty mask of nonemotion._ )

“Probably not.” After slipping on his shades, he motions halfheartedly to the drawer of his desk that’s closest to the bed. “Should be a bottle in there with a red sticker on top. If you’re so keen on helping.”

( _Wonderful. Now he’s pissed at you._ )

Karkat pushes the thought aside hand does as instructed. Theyalso fetch a glass of water. “Is that supposed to help or…?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know.” Dave pulls three pills from the bottle and downs them all at once. Then, after a few moments of awkward silence, he drops the bottle on his desk and rolls over. “I guess I owe you a thanks, right?”

His back is facing Karkat and his words go more to the wall in front of him than anything else.

“If you want, sure. Knock yourself the fuck out. I’m going to class, though.”

“Lovely. Hope the door hits you on your way out, you pushy bastard.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, Dave manages to pull himself out of bed long enough for matriculation, which occurs, annoyingly enough, at 6:00PM. He makes it through the event and promptly returns to his dorm, where he downs his prescribed second dose of painkillers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a side notes there are some things even i, the author of countless buttloads of davekat, will not write so i mean if you don't know what the dashes are censoring good for you i hope you stay innocent forever but you did just read davekat so........


	12. "It's a shame we only have two middle fingers"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Funeral for a Friend (Love Lies Bleeding)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAhpIjazFN0)**  
>  Elton John  
> 1973

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i sure would love to use more than two   
>  i mean   
>  what says i hate you more than growing a whole new middle finger

By Tuesday morning, Dave is back to his usual, smug self. It’s perhaps the most amazing and mildly unwelcome rebound Karkat has ever seen. ( _You kind of liked the quiet. It was nice not having some air-headed asshole plucking at his guitar and muttering stupid, pointless shit to you while you tried to study._ )

Not that it lasts long.

The crack in his composure shows the minute he realizes what day it is. And, as he prods at his usual breakfast of syrup-drenched pancakes, he lets forth a disgruntled groan.

“Can we _not_ make sexual noises while the asexual jackass—also known as me—is trying to eat breakfast?” Karkat responds. “Or, hey! Here’s an idea for you, Strider! Actually say what you’re feeling instead of groaning like a constipated old man.”

“Fine,” says Dave. He shoves the plate with his last two and a half pancakes on it away from him and folds his arms across his chest. It’s a show of obvious aggression—a silent display of the discomfort that Karkat can feel radiating from him. “It’s Tuesday. That’s all I have to say. It’s fuckin’ Tuesday and this is _not_ a rad way to start the week.”

Shrugging, Karkat downs some of their own breakfast. Today, they’ve chosen a bowl of plain cheerios. “You got a day off yesterday. What the fuck else do you want?”

“I spent the majority of yesterday doing my fuckin’ best to not make an attempt at sawing off a majority of my body. I wouldn’t call that a peachy experience.”

“Well. Just saying.” Karkat shrugs. They finish the last bit of their meal before rising from their seat and trotting over to the rotating carousel on which students were _supposed_ to place dirty dishes. ( _It’s barely been two weeks and you’ve already seen some shit. You’ve seen a pair of socks, a cardboard box, an Amazon Prime receipt, and—perhaps most disturbingly of all—a lone shoe. Where was the other? Who was its owner? You don’t know the answer to either of these questions._ ) Glancing over their shoulder is enough for them to know that Dave is following closely.

Really, though, there’re a few things they’ve picked up on that let them know Dave is nearby. Besides an unbelievable and sudden onset of an urge to shower and scrub off the inherent douchebag-ness which comes as a package deal with Dave, there’s noise. The footplate of his chair rattles whenever he moves. The wheels squeak slightly. The contents of whatever bags he has for the day also rattle, often in unison with the footplate. All of these tiny sounds are dead giveaways that Dave is nearby; and, if anything, Karkat can confidently say that they’re pretty sure Dave will never be able to sneak up on them.

“If I dumped a bag of my own piss on Scratch, you think I could write it off as an accident?”

Karkat frowns. They glance down and to the left, where they find Dave moving alongside them. “Fucking disgusting. Why would you have a bag of your own putrid piss?”

“We’ve already gone over this. Although, hey, I’ve got a new joke for you.”

A long, thoughtful sigh. Despite the knowledge that they will undoubtedly regret this, Karkat plays along. “Fine. What the fuck is this revolutionary new joke?”

“What’s something you and I have in common?”

“Nothing. You’re a masculine douchebag caricature and I like to consider myself a decent human being.” They tug at the strap of the bag their easel is in.

And Dave, after a moment of snickering, proceeds to deliver the punchline to his alleged joke. “Well. Maybe. I was going to say we’re both streams of constant piss and, in your case, vinegar but… Yeah. Sure.”

“ _Fucking Disgusting_ ,” Karkat repeats. “I don’t need to know this.”

“Yes you do,” Dave says, adding to his voice a facetious, whining quality. “I need to know if you think I could pass dumping a bag of piss on Scratch as an accident.”

( _How the hell does he say this with a straight face? Aside from his shitty, far-too-much-information joke, he’s yet to crack a single smile. Is he actually serious?_ )

“No,” is Karkat’s succinct answer.

“Shit,” is Dave’s.

 

* * *

 

The assignment was to create a painting of some random scenery. A small, basic painting whose creation time amounted to less than three hours. After all, the class is ( _supposedly_ ) about spontaneity and freedom. And this current session is to be dedicated to critiques.

Everyone has taped their painting to the classroom wall and, now, a semicircle of dreary-looking students convenes. Professor Scratch picks a painting and the class begins.

One by one, people are given helpful but asinine tips on how to improve.

“Be looser with your strokes. Paint what you feel.”

“Less lines, more color.”

“Too much turpentine.”

“Too little turpentine.”

They go around the room, checking off each student until the moment that Dave Strider has been dreading comes. And, just as he expected, it begins with a pointedly degrading comment.

“Next up we have the piece by Dave Strider,” Scratch jeers. He makes a show of moving the page from the only feasible spot that Dave could reach to the level at which most of the others are gathered. Then, with his hands clasped behind his back and a shitty smile spread across his face, he begins. “You call this an assignment, Strider?”

( _If you don’t react, they won’t know. Roll with the punches until you can punch back._ ) “Yes, sir.”

“Hmph.” A contemptuous laugh. Scratch adjusts his ugly, outdated pince-nez glasses. “I call it the work of a child who’s just discovered the color black.”

Dave nods slowly.

“Tell me, David—”

“Dave. Name’s Dave Strider.”

“David,” Scratch says haughtily. “Why is everything so dark and blurry?”

“Because I wear my shades, sir.”

“And you wear them for what? Looking cool? Seeming mysterious?” As he speaks, Scratch taps his fingers against Dave’s painting.

“Severe photosensitivity.” ( _It’s the diagnosis you were given when Bro took you in after The Incident. You’d always had splitting, awful headaches. Over the course of every day, you would develop them. And they would grow until it felt like someone was digging an axe through your skull. At night, they quieted down. But, come the next morning, they would invariably return._ )

Scratch offers a huff of laughter as a reply. “And any excuse for why it looks like you’re a trigger-happy photo editor with the blur tool?”

“I have bad eyesight, sir. Childhood injury.”

“So, you were as stupid of a child as you are as a young adult?” Scratch doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t falter. He simply picks a spot and zeroes in on it. “Tell me, then, David… Why are you taking a visual arts class if you are physically incapable of producing anything beyond mediocre.”

“I think it’s a fucking decent painting, you jackass.” The voice is loud, crisp, and familiar.

Scratch freezes. His gaze falls upon Karkat and there’s an aggressive spark in his eye. A seemingly innocent but insidious smile spreads across his face. “Karkat, even your artistic trash is worth more than David’s piss-poor excuse for art.”

Silence.

Dave becomes the center of attention once again. “David, what is your major?”

“Music.”

“I doubt you’ll do well in that field either.” Scratch shrugs. “Critiques are done. Go paint whatever you please for next week. And, David, I would advise you to drop out. I like neither your attitude nor your work.” As if to emphasize this, he rips the page from the wall so that only half of it comes free. With a carefree shrug, he tosses the ruined painting back to Dave and departs.

 

* * *

 

“What the actual hell is your problem, Scratch?” Karkat speaks only after the class has dispersed to do their next assignment. They corner Scratch as he enters his office and level him with what they hope is an intimidating glare. “Look, I don’t like the fucking jackass either, but I don’t verbally abuse him.”

Scratch shrugs. “You’re a worthwhile artist, Karkat,” he hums. “I would advise you to drop this topic before I’m forced to include you in the matter.”

“I don’t give a fuck if you do.” ( _Why do you care so much? What does Dave mean to you? He’s your roommate. Your annoying, pain-in-the-ass roommate. But… There’s more to him. You’ve seen it. Somewhere, beneath his indifferent façade, is someone who needs to talk. Someone who knows what it’s like to be stepped on and ground into the dust like a bug._ ) “I can report you to the school, you know.”

“And I can make your life a living hell in the meantime.” Against the building policy, Scratch lights a pipe. Another vitriolic smile. “David Strider is an arrogant, useless piece of trash. He’ll never contribute to society in his state, so why should _I_ have to bother teaching him?” His smile grows. He waves. “Goodbye, Karkat.”

“You fucking bastard!” The door to the office closes before Karkat can move to do as they wish. There isn’t enough time for them to prepare to punch the smug-looking jackass; but, punching him has just become one of the top ten things to do on their bucket list.

Still, they’ve been defeated.

A long sigh. Karkat folds their arms across their chest and wanders outside to neither complete nor so much as begin the given assignment.


	13. [From the inbox of Karkat Vantas]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Justice for All Court Suite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4lLhStrGMc)**  
>  Capcom  
>  ** _Ace Attorney Meets Orchestra_** (2008) | Capcom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stop   
>  seriously stop   
>  fuckin stop

 

> Karkat Vantas,
> 
> I understand that you’ve been asking about Dave’s personal history and I strongly advise you to cease and desist. I have consulted with him and, as I had predicted, he has told me to restrict any knowledge I might be able to provide about his family background. My warning comes as a means of protecting you; Dave’s past isn’t pleasant.
> 
> I am allowed to tell you some things, though.
> 
> Dave’s parents were killed in a car accident when he was five. His older brother became his legal guardian and a fight between the two when he was eight led to his injury. When he was sixteen, his brother was arrested for abuse and neglect. He was subsequently sent to live with a foster family who, while very caring, didn’t have the proper facilities to care for him. He was removed from their care six months later and spent the rest of his time as a minor living with a family equipped with the means to care for him but unwilling to provide the emotional support he needed.
> 
> The moment he turned eighteen, Dave moved out to live on his own. He’s since sold his apartment to live on campus and will be living with me nearby for the summer.
> 
> Whatever your reasons are for asking such questions are your own, but I repeat: it is for your own benefit that you stop looking into Dave’s past. Presumably, you are doing this because you care for him. What you find will be uncomfortable at best.
> 
> Rose Lalonde  
>  RoseLalonde@skaia.edu

 

* * *

  

> Karkat,
> 
> If there's a talent that Dave has that he doesn't know of, it's acting. Dave Strider is a phenomenal actor. And that's because his entire life is an act. And I assure you that you do not want to get into what is behind the curtain. Enjoy your friendship. Stop digging for answers.
> 
> Rose Lalonde  
>  RoseLalonde@skaia.edu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say "filler chapter?"


	14. Welcome to the "Awesome as Fuck" gun show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9K810mFl_q4)**  
>  SID  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_** (2009)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom bang you like that dont you   
>  of course you do im rad as hell

( _Oh. Shit._ )

It’s during the early hours of Thursday morning when Karkat wakes to find Dave without his shirt on.

It’s Thursday morning when they first catch a glimpse of the muscles hidden beneath the loose shirts he often wears. Defined. But not overly so. The curves are smooth and gentle; not the aggressive, hard lines of a bodybuilder. Rather, it’s an average physique that’s been tuned towards a life of moving with his upper body.

( _Oh. Shit._ )

“Oh. You’re up.” Dave smirks. He turns to face Karkat. The curtains are drawn, the lights are dim, and his shades are off.

For the first time, Karkat realizes why Dave wears those shades. His gaze isn’t focused on them. Rather, it’s carefully positioned a few degrees to their left. Presumably, he’s focused his gaze so that the clearest area is centered on their face. They also notice the fact that, as he turns, his torso is covered in a surprising amount of straight, hard-edged scars. ( _Rose had said you didn’t want to know about his past. Is this one of the reasons?_ )

“Yo. Karkat.”

( _Oh. Shit._ )

“Hm? Oh. Yeah.”

A cocky smile. “Can’t say much for the abs, but I totally get the staring. My arms are fuckin’ ripped.”

“No… It’s… Not that…” Heat rises to Karkat’s cheeks. They roll over, back to a spot where Dave can't see them. ( _Why is your mouth so dry? Why can’t you just open your fucking mouth and say something? This is Dave Strider. You can’t possibly fall for him._ ) “I… um…”

“I’m pretty taken with Jade, dude,” he hums. “Besides, you’re not really my type. Sorry.”

“Yeah…” Karkat laughs nervously.

( _Shut up. You need to shut up. He doesn’t want you._

_But… you’d be lying if you said you don’t have this weird urge within you. To know what it’s like to have him as your boyfriend. By his looks alone, you’d be the romantic ruler of the school. You’d have Dave motherfucking Strider. You’d be able to hold him close to you and whisper into his ear. Tell him how goddamned beautiful he is._

_No._

_Fuck._

_Oh. Shit._

_Romance won’t get you a job. Romance won’t get you a job. Romance won’t get you a job. Romance won’t get you a job._ )

 

* * *

 

When Dave left his second and last foster family, he’d received a gift. A cheap, beaten-up old car. Ford LTD, late 1980s. It’s a reliable, decent thing with fairly well-done accessibility modifications.

A lever mounted so as to be at the bottom right of the wheel operates the brakes and accelerator. Keeping his first three fingers around the steering wheel, he pushes with his thumb to accelerate and pulls with his little finger to brake. ( _Who the fuck says “pinkie?” Who came up with that fucking awful word?_ ) Unscrewing a bolt near the base allows for the unit to be tucked away for those rare times he loans his car out to others. ( _Not that you ever will._ ) The front passenger seat collapses forwards with the pull of a handle mounted on the back of the headrest.

The main problem is the car’s design. It was clearly made for an abled-bodied male of the 1980s. The steering wheel is uncomfortably large and the seats are hard to get out of. ( _They’re a hit with passengers, though._ ) You sit in them and sink like they’re made of the same shit they make beanbag chairs out of. It’s a long, annoying, and often draining process to get out of the car without help; and, seeing as the whole point of a car is to be able to go places alone, it fails on that front.

Not that he’d trade it. And not that he _could_ trade it. No one will take it. They’d have to undo all of the custom work that’s been done to it to make it modestly more drivable than an SUV.

When it comes to driving, Dave operates on two rules. The first is to use the car only when necessary. The second is, when taking passengers, take no more than two and make sure one of them knows how to help.

Of his friends, only Rose and John are qualified to actually provide aid. Anyone else will undoubtedly do something wrong.

So, when Jade proposes a date, Dave proposes a counteroffer.

Karkat and John. Him and Jade.

When Karkat grants their blessing, the plan is set into motion.

By now, they’ve made it to the parking lot of Dave’s restaurant of choice—a nearby Red Robin. ( _Burgers, man. Motherfucking burgers._ ) The only problem is that he’s overlooked a crucial fact.

John is the only person with worse time management skills than him. And, without him, there’s zero qualified people to assist him. Sure, he’s gotten the chair assembled. But, considering the fact that he’s wearing one of his only good polo shirts, he’s more than mildly hesitant to try and get himself out of this beanbag hell of a car seat. ( _Way to go, Strider. You’re waving your arms and screaming for a pass when all the other useful players have fuckin’ dropped dead._ ) Or… There’s always…

( _It’s either embarrass yourself in front of Karkat or embarrass yourself in from of Jade. Since you’re aiming to hook up with the latter, you decide upon the first idea._ )

“Karkat.”

“Hm?”

“You capable of following basic instructions? Of course you are. Unlike John, you didn’t make your bed upside-fuckin’-down.” He watches warily as Karkat travels to his side. Then, he shoves himself into a more reasonable position. “You mind helping me out of here? It’s like trying to get out of goddamned Jell-O.”

After a moment of hesitation, Karkat nods.

“Awesome. I owe you one.” He grabs onto the handle above the door and pulls himself up a few inches. “While I’ve got eyes for Jade, it’s best if you do this bridal—” He’s cut off as he’s lifted from the seat with unanticipated ease.  “Well, fuck. You’re not as wimpy as you look, Karkat.”

“I can drop you. Right here. And leave.”

“And then Jade will kick your ass.”

To confirm this, Jade nods. She folds her arms atop the roof of the car as she looks on from the other side. “I will. Don’t drop Dave. If anything, it’ll be messy.”

Dave rolls his eyes. As Karkat turns, he grabs onto one of the handles of his chair. His grip moves accordingly as Karkat sets him down. To the seat, the wheel, and, finally, pushing against his knees to get himself into the proper position. “You’re hired, Karkat.”

“I’m firing myself, then,” they respond, rubbing their hands against their jacket. “That was weird. Kind of creepy.”

“So is losing our reservation because I’m stuck in the armpit of car upholstery.” Dave smirks. He nods towards the door and forges onwards. “C’mon. John will show up later.”

 

* * *

 

John doesn’t show up.

Instead, two hours after everyone gets back, Karkat gets what is perhaps the most awkward text of their life.

Apparently, John isn’t really interested in dating them. And, much to Karkat’s disappointment—albeit not to any sort of shock—he’s straight. Straight as the fucking straightest edge on the planet. He also has some sort of vague excuse about homework that needed to get done.

Not that they mind. Karkat had had a hunch about it all along.

Now, though, they face a different problem.

What the hell are they going to do with Dave? He’s damned near impossible to look away from. And, even with his shitty, fake personality, he’s admittedly charming. Admittedly alluring. And he’s the last person Karkat would ever want to be associated with.

( _Why is everything so goddamned complicated? Why can’t you just settle down with a nice block of wood in a little cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere and become a reclusive forest magician? Or… something… like that…_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way headcanon Dave singing voice is probably best described as Joe Anderson from across the universe wow wasn't that a FUN FACT


	15. Will "maybe do things" for money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Knights of Cydonia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9D71pQaTnc)**  
>  Muse  
>  ** _Black Holes and Revelations_** (2006) | Helium 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably not though

“I should start a YouTube channel.”

Karkat frowns. They spin their desk chair around to face Dave, who just so happens to be perched atop his bed with his guitar. “No one wants to see Douchebag McFuckwit talking about his awful life and playing his awful songs.”

( _Except for you. You would watch._ )

“Really?” A sly grin spreads across Dave’s face. “I know plenty of great songs. I can play ‘It’s a Small World.’ Everyone loves it.”

“Don’t you dare, Strider.”

He picks at the strings for a moment before… “ _It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…_ ”

“You damned bastard.”

“ _It’s a world of hopes and a world of fears…_ ”

“Goddammit.” Despite Karkat’s words, they can’t help but find themself smiling. “Quit it, Strider.”

“ _There’s so much that we share…_ ”

“I’ll be sharing my fucking fist with your smug fucking face.” Their best efforts aren’t enough; a snort of laughter escapes them.

“ _That it’s time we’re aware…_ ”

They jump from their seat and walk purposefully towards Dave’s side of the room. They reach for the guitar. “God fucking dammit.”

“That’s not very _cheerful_ , Kark.” Dave continues playing. His smirk grows. “This is motherfuckin’ Disney, Kark. _Get fuckin’ cheery_.”

“Call me ‘Kark’ again and—”

“It’s a nice nickname, dude. Nice and short. Just like you.” When he sees you reaching for the guitar again, he turns. The neck pushes their hand away and offers him enough time to finish his mind-numbingly awful song. “ _It’s a small world after all._ ”

Here, mercifully, Karkat gets a hold on the neck of the guitar. They sigh in relief, only for the silence to be rudely interrupted by the continuation of the song. The pitch is raised in accordance with the placement of their hand.

“ _It’s a small world after all_.”

“Do you even like that fucking song? Because _nobody_ I know actually fucking likes that shitty excuse for music.” ( _Why is his smile so goddamned cute? Why can’t he just be as disgusting on the outside as his false personality is on the inside?_ )

Dave tuts thoughtfully. He shrugs. “It’s a shit song. But it’s great for annoying jackasses like you.” A snicker. A cocky, satisfied hum. “We’d make a pretty good video duo, though. The short, shouting dude and the hot, amazing me. Because, of course, I’m the fuckin’ star here.”

“How about you get something better than a broken laptop webcam. Then, maybe, my answer will be ‘possibly.’ But still unlikely.”

“What about…” Dave sets aside his guitar. He nudges Karkat out of the way and lifts himself from the bed to his chair. Then, he grabs the guitar once more. He gently places it back into his beaten up case before continuing. “It’s a Small World: Hip hop of the world edition?”

“How about Dave Strider: Bullshit Vendor?”

A fake pout. “That’s mean, Karkat.”

“So is gracing this already fucked over world with another version of It’s a Goddamned Small World.” They sigh. It’s a mix of exasperation and amusement. And, at this point, a thought crosses their mind. ( _He’s more cheerful today. You wonder if there’s a chance for you to ease some information out of him._ ) “So, Rose said you used to live in Texas?”

“Houston.” Dave lifts his shades enough for Karkat to catch a glimpse of him winking. “Lived in Houston. Astor Apartments. Penthouse. Bro was never stingy when it came to our living space.”

( _Bro._

 _Is this the same Bro that he seems to despise? The person with whom he has some sort of paradoxical love-hate relationship?_ )

“And… Bro was?”

“My guardian until I was sixteen.” Dave shrugs. He winces as his upper body jerks slightly forwards before falling back into place. In his usual fashion, he brushes the action off without mentioning it. “Taught me how to fight and shit. Kind of a worthless brother, but he’d give me cool shit.”

“Like what?”

“He bought me some turntables, but those ended up broken when get got drunk once. Get a little, lose a little.”

“And you fought him?”

Dave frowns. He backs away from Karkat. “He taught me some self-defense. Sure, swords aren’t useful, but the techniques are.” His voice is tight and defensive, as is his body language. “Don’t pull a Lalonde on me, dude. I have enough shit to deal with already. Rose constantly trying to make me quote-unquote _understand_ ,” he emphasizes the word with finger quotes and the word flies from his mouth as an aggressive hiss, “Why Bro was thrown in jail.”

“I was just wondering.”

“Quit wondering.” Dave turns and opens his desk drawer. He picks out his pill organizer and downs the contents of Friday’s section. He swallows the array with a huge gulp of presumably flat soda. ( _It’s been sitting there for over twelve hours. It cannot still be fizzy._ )

“Fine.” Karkat backs down quickly. Sure, they’re curious; but, they’re not willing to push him away with questions he obviously won’t answer. “Then I’ve got a completely different question.”

“If it’s about Bro—”

Karkat raises their hands in the air. “Nope. Fucking promise. It’s not.”

“Then…” There’s a moment’s pause as Dave considers something. It ends when he finishes his statement, “Shoot. But I reserve the right to shoot back.”

“Fair enough.” A few steps back. If there’s one thing Karkat has learned, it’s that a short temper and a feeling of being cornered go together like fire and flour. It’s an explosive, violent reaction; and, it never ends pleasantly. “How tall are you?”

Dave smirks. “Where’d that question come from?”

“I don’t fucking know. Do you even know how tall you are? I mean…”

“Actually. Yes.” He opens his closet and, for the first time, Karkat catches a glimpse of a fairly bulky chair hidden beneath an array of shoes and clothes. “You really want to know? Because this thing’s about ninety fuckin’ pounds and I’m not pulling it out just so you can say you don’t care anymore.”

“That depends, Strider. What the hell is it?”

By now, Dave has already begun to clear off the chair. It’s built like the one he’s using; but, it has more features. A pair of armrests and a remote awkwardly duct taped to the left arm. “Standing chair,” he explains. “Haul your ass into one of these and press the button and that’s probably the closest I’ll be getting to an accurate gauge of my height for now.”

( _What?_ )

“You’re cute when you’re confused, jackass.”

Karkat frowns. They look away and focus on the ground.

From Dave’s position comes a series of loud squeaks—the sort of sound that comes from something that needs to be oiled. A few profanities are uttered under his breath as he presumably moves from one chair to the other. “You want to know what it is, then I suggest you look now. I’m not doing this again, because it’s a huge fuckin’ pain.”

Looking up, Karkat catches a glimpse of what they can only presume to be some sort of hydraulics system that pushes the back upwards while retracting the seat. It’s a slow, lurching process that gets hung up on itself a few times. “If I get stuck in this, you’d better get me the fuck out of it,” Dave comments at some point. “Two thousand dollars my ass. This piece of trash isn’t worth the spare change in hospital bedpans,” he grumbles at another of these pauses.

Eventually, though, the machine stops.

Taking out the extra inch from the footplate, Dave’s still a good six feet tall. If he tightened the belt around his chest so that he didn’t slouch forward so damned much, he’d be a good six foot two.

“Fuck.” The word slips from Karkat’s mouth before they can stop it.

Dave responds with a laugh. “You really are short, dude. I thought it was just me but… Damn.”

“So… You have that… But you use that?” Karkat gestures first to the chair Dave is in; then, he points at the plainer one parked nearby. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you just use the one you’re in now all the time?”

By now, Dave is already lowering the chair. Again, it lurches slowly and awkwardly back into its original position. “This is ninety fuckin’ pounds. I might be accustomed to scooting around all day, but I’m not adding that much extra weight. The other one’s only, like, twenty or thirty.”

( _He lifts twenty or thirty pounds into his car every time he goes driving? And, if what Karkat had seen at the not-so-double dinner date, he’s still capable of tossing the chair around like it’s little more than a heavy book._ )

“It’s also pretty fuckin’ useless. Doesn’t move in the standing position. And I’ve broken my legs at least once on this.”

“If it doesn’t move…?”

“Sitting on your ass all day fucks up your bones, apparently.” Dave shrugs. An impatient sigh escapes him. “I’ll be fuckin’ dead by the time this is done.”

“Get a new one?”

Dave laughs. This time, though, it’s not forced; but, it’s not happy. It’s bitter and empty. “Like I’ve got a good twenty grand to drop on anything.” He frowns and folds his arms across his chest.

“And where’d you get this?”

“Bro bought it for me,” Dave announces this as if it’s some sort of grand accomplishment. “I’d wanted one for a while and he finally put down some money for this when I was fifteen. Said he wanted to wait until I stopped growing.”

Karkat nods slowly.

( _As far as you’re concerned, Bro is a complete fucking tool. He’s the scum of the earth. But, somehow, Dave still thinks of him as his older brother. You’re not sure how, but he does._ )

“How old is it?”

“Late nineties so… Twenty or so?” Dave shrugs. Grabs onto the armrest with a white-knuckled death hold as the mechanics falter and lurch the entire chair forwards a few inches. “Fuck. It needs to be repaired…” He stops. Catches his breath. “Fuck.”

“That thing’s a moving death trap, Strider,” Karkat points out.

“And it’s something I got from Bro. So I don’t see a point in throwing it out.” The process repeats again for the last few inches. Dave holds onto the armrest as the seat drops gracelessly into place. And, as soon as he’s sure it’s not going to move again, he jumps ship.

Karkat, meanwhile, lets forth a long, pensive sigh. “Rose said your brother’s the one who injured you.”

“Yeah? Your point?” Dave’s back on the defensive. His shoulders are tense. His jaw set. “It was an accident. I’m pretty fuckin’ sure it was an accident. And it’s not like it ruined my life. I’m perfectly fuckin’ happy. Now, drop it.”

( _You should follow the order. Drop the topic. There are plenty of things to talk about and, yet… There’s this bubbling rage that’s rising inside you. It’s coming up fast and, for some reason, you don’t want to do a damned thing about it._ )

“You don’t resent it at all? Not a single, tiny fucking bit? You’re just goddamned fine with what that bastard did to you?”

“Don’t call my brother a bastard, Vantas,” he snaps. He tugs at his right leg, which seems to be caught on one of the caps to hold the knees in place and, after a few seconds, manages to free it. “Bro wanted the best for me, alright? He just didn’t know how the fuck to do it. He was goddamned eighteen. He should have been leaving home and he got stuck at home watching my damned ass.”

“And you don’t think that there wasn’t one fucking time that he resented you for it?”

“I know he did. He said it all he damned time.” He frowns and backs away, roughly shoving the other chair back towards the closet. “Seriously, Karkat, don’t do this.”

“I’m just trying point it out to you. Get it through your fucking unbelievable thick skull that your brother was a jackass. An absolute jackass. And he didn’t give a damn about you.” Here, Karkat stops. They release a long, frustrated sigh and run their fingers through their hair. “Think about it, Strider,” they say, pushing the door to the dorm room open and disappearing down the hall.

 

* * *

 

He texts Jade a series of increasingly nonsensical strings of letters.

She sends back an invitation to her room. And he accepts.

Honestly, though, he doesn’t feel like being here. He wants to go back to his room and crawl under the covers and take out each of the seeds of doubt that Karkat has planted in his head one by one. Surely, two… no… Three people—John, Karkat, and Rose—can’t all be wrong. Surely…

“Dave!”

He jumps. Forces a smile. “Jade.”

 

* * *

 

“Just give him time to cool off.” John hums as he bounces a hot pink rubber ball off of his ceiling. “Dave’s really sensitive about some things. His Bro. The way his spine is pretty obviously fucked if you look at it. Oh. One of the weirder ones is that he loves apple juice and hates hard apple cider. But he’ll drink it anyways to look cool.”

“This isn’t helping,” Karkat grumbles.

( _Why did you come to John? Of all the people you could have sought out for advice, why John? Why not… Rose? Or Kanaya? Or a goddamned rock?_ )


	16. "Okay so sometimes people have good advice"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**High Flying Bird**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RM4vgXR6JQ)  
>  Elton John  
>  ** _Don't Shoot the Piano Player_** (1973)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate it when im wrong   
>  add five points to the anger factor because it turns out karkat was right   
>  imagine some retro arcade noises and then congrats your anger has leveled up

Saturday passes without any significant change.

Dave and Karkat remain distant. They simply don’t talk to one another.

And, as far as Dave’s concerned, he’s starting to feel a bit guilty about it. After all, Karkat was only trying to help. And they probably have a point. If so many people are saying that Bro’s behavior wasn’t normal then… maybe… it wasn’t…

Now, he finds himself doing something that he’s grown familiar with. He eats alone, something that’s been a near-constant for every meal since his parents’ deaths.

He frowns. Leans forward and balances himself against his knees as he runs his left hand up his spine. He stops as he hits the spot he never really thinks about—the abnormally smooth handful of inches of what he understands to be a compilation of assorted shit. Rods for stability, bone taken from his hip, screws for integrity. All encased in a solid metal sheathing. It literally sticks out from the rest of his back as a fairly thick tube jammed between a pair of slightly crooked vertebrae.

He pushes himself back, leaning against the backrest as he considers the idea that Karkat, Rose, and John have all proposed to him—the notion that Bro never cared about him.

He thinks back to some of the most damning evidence.

Despite his constant headaches and near-daily injuries, he can only remember being taken to the hospital twice. One of those times was after The Incident; so, make that one.

The only other time was after a particular nasty strife. A massive gash—one that remains as a scar to this day—was left along his thigh. Bro had patched it up before locking Dave in his room for the night. Within two days, his head throbbed and his body failed to obey his commands. Bro dropped him off alone at the ER, where he presumably blacked out.

At least, that’s what Dave assumes. He doesn’t remember anything until he woke up in the PICU with a tube jammed down his throat. Infection. Deep, festering infection that ate at the skin around the wound to the point that the doctors considered it a miracle that they avoided amputation or major excision.

( _The doctor in charge explained to you that injuries can lead to some sort of negative bodily reaction. Since any worthwhile sensation beyond seemingly unpredictable pain was gone, there was a chance that any injury could cause a full-body reaction. High blood pressure. Confusion. Nausea. Pain._ )

“Strider.”

A voice pulls Dave from his thoughts. A hand which grabs him by the backrest of his chair pulls him out of the road in time to watch a car barrel past him. A lack of warning results in the chair tipping. The back of his head hits first; the rest of him comes afterwards. ( _This is going to be one hell of a headache._ ) “Shit.”

( _Karkat? No… That’s not Karkat’s voice…_ )

Unfamiliar hands—pale brown to the point that it looks like little more than a spray-on tan—grab the downed chair.

A rough, careless grip hauls Dave to his feet.

“Thought we forgot about you, Strider?”

( _Oh. Fuck. It’s…_ )

Something hits his stomach. His breath comes out all at once, as little more than a strained huff. He’s shoved into the back of a car and the door slams closed.

 

* * *

 

Despite the fact that they’re still mad at him, Karkat can’t help but feel concerned about the fact that Dave failed to show up after church was over. It’s been at least three hours and, even after swallowing their pride long enough to call the damned church _and_ John _and_ Rose _and_ Jade, no one has seen him.

It’s not as if the damned asshole could just disappear.

And, then, as if on cue, they get a text. From Dave.

It’s vague and obviously not a genuine Dave Strider text. Letters are capitalized.

** Go to the frat house at the corner of Meridian and Central **

There’s a churning, queasy feeling in Karkat’s stomach—a general idea that what they’ll find will be unpleasant. But, they’re not about to be labelled as the campus recluse who let their roommate die. So, they gather what they believe they’ll need—their key fob, a whole backpack’s worth of bandages, and some pepper spray.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you think it’s about time to stop, Ampora? I mean…”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re going to kill him.”

“That’s fine with me. At least the brat will learn his lesson.”

“If he dies, can I keep the shades?”

“Keep them anyhow, English.”

The voices echo in Dave’s head. They fade in and out and stretch and change and shift. And his vision is just as enigmatic. It’s as if he’s being woken up too soon. Shapes float before him, but he can’t quite place what they are. He moves, presses against the floor to lift his body from the ground, and is met with a force that pushes him back to the ground. ( _Well. At least they don’t know what you can and can’t feel. Looks like they’re just targeting the easiest places. So that’s a… positive… you guess?_ )

“Quit it, Ampora. You’re getting blood all over the fucking carpet.”

A large, dark shape appears in his vision. It fades in and out. The edges blur, then sharpen; sharpen, then blur. Something grabs him by the collar of his shirt and slams him against a wall. He makes no attempt to free himself. Bro’s done this to him before. He can handle other people beating the shit out of him…

“Think I can break his nose?”

“Seriously, Ampora. Stop.”

Something slams against Dave’s face. A fist, probably. A fist where one of the fingers is wearing some outrageously oversized ring. ( _Mm. This will be a real fuckin’ nosebleed. You hate nosebleeds. They’re such a hassle. Sit up until it stops. Reduce the risk of inhaling the blood into your relatively weak lungs._ )

The thing holding him to the wall is pulled away. He drops to the floor. ( _That’s probably a broken something. Or a dislocated something. Doesn’t really matter to you. It’s not like you’ll feel it until the shock’s worn off. And, then, you’ll probably just black the fuck out like you did last time you got this much shit kicked out of you in one sitting._ )

Something grabs him and holds him beneath his armpits. Drags him along, across some sort of carpeted floor, until it finally drops him against a hardwood porch. ( _At least it’s a nice day out. Could be worse. Could be raining. Could be snowing._ ) Nearby, there’s the familiar squeaking of the wheels of his chair.

He feels around, until his hand falls on the footplate, and pulls himself into the recommended position—back as straight as possible. Weight against the chair. Stay until you’re ready to get up. Relax…

 

* * *

 

Seeing as he figures he’ll need an easier and faster way of moving Dave to wherever the hell he’ll need to go, Karkat enlists John’s help.

They take the short journey to the frat house and find Dave asleep ( _unconscious?_ ) on the front porch. Nearby are the shattered remains of his shades.

He’s very obviously been roughed up—and, if Karkat had a say, they’d be the first to point out that the injuries were more consistent with legitimate assault. From what they know, this wasn’t some schoolyard brawl. This was a one-sided act of revenge.

“Strider?”

Dave stirs. He pushes against the ground and grumbles something incoherent before dropping back to the ground.

“Dave?” John speaks up. For once, he’s actually taking things seriously; and, it’s mildly unnerving. “C’mon, dude.” He kneels down next to the blond and gently shakes his shoulder. “Dude?”

“It’s too fuckin’ bright outside,” Dave grumbles.

John nods. ( _There has to be a history between these two. They know each other. Of course, they were online friends at one point. But there has to be something more._ ) “How’re you feeling?”

A weak, forced laugh. “Like absolute shit.”

“You look like it, too,” John shrugs. The words are neither a joke nor a response; they’re simply commentary. Something said to keep Dave’s attention. “Can you get back up on your own?”

Though Karkat half expects a snarky response, they’re not surprised when Dave simply nods. He awkwardly pulls himself back into his chair before rubbing some of the dried blood from beneath his nose. “They didn’t give me another black eye, right?”

“Nope. Why would that matter, though, Strider?” Karkat says.

And, to their surprise, Dave offers a small smirk. “I wasn’t actually joking about the YouTube idea. I mean… What? The angry short one and the cool musician. Great premise for a channel, right?”

“ _Mamadas._ How about you shut up for five minutes, Strider?” As they speak, they watch John move to the car. “You have everything handled or…?”

“I’ve got it,” John says with a reassuring smile.

Karkat, in return, retreats to the passenger’s seat of the car.

( _You’ve never been fond of blood. Not your own. Not anyone’s. It’s disgusting. It’s absolutely disgusting. And you’d rather avoid being exposed to any form of it—be it dried or fresh._ )


	17. "Wanna hear a joke about pound cake?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Across the Universe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yjDrrJGTWDU)**  
>  Jim Sturgess  
>  ** _Across the Universe_** (2007) | Interscope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its me im the pound cake   
>  i am sweet as fuck and i have been pounded but by like a fist in my face   
>  it was not a fun pounding lemme tell you

Dave has always had a fascination with clocks. With grandiose, complex, detailed machines whose functions can range from telling time to calculating the positions of the stars. It’s just something he’s always had an interest in. Something that’s kept him going.

When he was younger, he’d take apart clocks when Bro wasn’t looking. He’d inevitably be beaten for it afterwards; but, he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t worth it. Because it was _totally_ worth it—to see how all the little pieces fit together and how each worked with another to move something much, much  larger. When he began drawing, he started by tracing the gears he plucked from the machines he tore apart.

And, even now, he sits in art class. His vision—a relatively small field that’s technically off-center—is focused on his sketchbook. The assignment occupies the top half of the page. A fairly quick and haphazard drawing of yet another goddamned fruit basket. And, below…

Below is where the magic is happening.

It’s the space that Dave uses to make thin, careful lines. To map out the inside of a clock as best as he can from memory. This one happens to be the old grandfather clock. For destroying it, he’d been rewarded with a kick in the stomach and the revoking of that night’s dinner privileges.

( _Steady hand. Precise, confident lines. There’s no point in drawing if the drawing lacks a style._ )

“Dave?”

The lead of his mechanical pencil snaps as it jabs a tiny hole in the page. “Jade!?”

( _You’d honestly forgotten there were any people nearby._ )

“Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“What? The fruit?” He scoffs. “That’s easy as hell.”

“No, doofus, I mean the clock. That’s really cool.” A small, hesitant glance in her direction—a glance that’s forced to technically land to her left—tells Dave that she’s smiling. “Mind if I take a closer look?”

“Not really…” He feels his cheeks heating up. The last time he’d ever let someone who wasn’t giving him a grade look at his art, he’d been locked in his room for five hours. ( _“Art is useless and so are you, kid.”_ ) He wrings his hands together as the sketchbook leaves his lap and takes a deep breath. “It’s not all that great. I used to take shit apart when I was a kid. I tried putting it back together but,” he laughs nervously, “I wasn’t too good at that part.”

“Well, you’re pretty good at drawing it,” Jade shrugs. Still smiling, she hands the book back.

And Dave, his cheeks burning what he’s sure is vibrant red, nods slowly. “Thanks. It’s just a stupid hobby, though. So… My real thing is music…”

( _Bro had always despised your music._

_He called it trash. Infantile, mind-numbing trash._

_The insipid filth that clogs the radio._ )

“Yeah. We still need to meet up for a session some time.”

“Mhm.”

“You okay, Dave?”

“Peachy,” he lies. He once again focuses his attentions on his sketchbook. “Perfectly fuckin’ peachy.”

“If you say so…” She’s obviously not entirely convinced. But, at the same time, Jade doesn’t push. She doesn’t force an answer out; rather, she accepts that he’s not ready to talk yet. She does, however, lean in a bit closer so as to whisper, “Karkat told me about what happened.”

“Yeah? Well Karkat’s an asshole,” Dave shoots back.

Jade hesitates. There’s a conflicted look on her face and a strangely uncertain tone to her voice. “Actually, Dave, I think they really cares about you.”

“As their roommate charity case, right?”

( _Erase as lightly as you draw. Take only as much as you need and never any more._ )

“No,” Jade frowns. Her brows furrow together. “I think they really care about you as a person. They’re really worried about you.”

“Mhm,” Dave says skeptically.

“They’ve been texting John and me about you. Wanting to know what they can do to help.”

“Yeah, well we’re dating, right?” Dave says this a bit louder than he means to. Again, he feels his cheeks heat up. He feels the confused glances of the few students who bother to turn around and glance at him. He allows himself to slip down a few inches in his chair.

( _Bro always said he wished you’d just disappear and, right now, you totally concur with the idea._ )

Jade’s response—an innocent smile and a shrug—only solidifies this belief more.

“Fuck.”

“I’m just saying, Dave. I think they really like you.”

“I’d rather rip out even more of my own spinal cord.”

“They're worried about you.”

“That wasn’t extreme enough? Does doing a fuckin’ motorcycle flip into a tank of sharks count as extreme? Because I’d rather do that, too.”

Jade sighs. She rolls her eyes. “I’m not trying to make you like them. I’m just letting you know.”

“Cool. I’ll keep it in mind next time I ignore them.”

( _But they are cute… Admittedly. They're damned cute. But… They can’t be on the market. And you can’t be on the market for other dudes._ )

He sighs. Returns to his sketch. “Think I should try uploading my music online?”

“You mean on YouTube?” Jade takes the bait. Although, knowing her, she probably did that to keep the discussion going. “Yeah. I think you’ve got a neat personality. You could definitely make yourself an internet personality.”

“You really think so?”

Jade nods and gently punches Dave on the shoulder. “Totally. I’d go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The internet as we know it collapses into anarchy,” says Dave, smirking.

 

* * *

 

Karkat returns from his final class of the day to find the room in a state of semi-chaos.

Dave’s side has been reorganized to look more like a tiny recording studio than a legitimate living space. Books are stacked atop and amplifier and, amidst the carnage, there’s him—looking proud of his goddamned mess.

“What the actual fuck are you doing to our room, Strider?”

“I’m going to take a shot at being an internet celebrity.”

“Isn’t living in real-life infamy enough for you, Strider?”

“Nope.” He smirks. It’s that same shit-eating grin that he always flashes and, yet, it’s… ( _So fucking cute. God fucking dammit._ ) “You want to double up?”

“Count me out.”

“Aw. I think Shouty McFucknubs would make a great internet persona.” A facetious pout.

Karkat responds with a roll of their eyes and a huff of exasperation. “What the hell are you going to do, anyhow? Talk about your life?”

“Nah. That’s boring. I was going to play music.”

“Original?”

“No. Probably covers first.”

Another sigh. “And do you actually _have_ any covers, Strider?”

“I’ve got one hell of a personality.”

“Well…” Karkat snickers, “That’s not exactly wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Dave Strider / 20 / December 3rd / this party is gonna get really rad really soon wait for it

This obviously informational blurb is then topped off with a feature video that’s little more than twenty minutes of blank screen with generic elevator music and a description of “videos maybe coming soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck it let's make dave strider a meme unto himself


	18. "'Sup"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1QL5t_kiXI)**  
>  Eddie Izard  
>  ** _Across the Universe_** (2007) | Interscope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> names d stri   
>  and im the raddest thing   
>  to happen to this fucked up planet   
>  go ahead and spread it   
>  ...    
>  the news i mean not like   
>  dont go spreading the plague or something like that

**DAVE, Blond Caucasian, mild Texan accent, has a peculiar propensity for talking a lot without really saying anything, 20, occupies center screen. He’s thrown a ratty-looking black sports coat on over his usual baseball shirt, though the record is still clearly visible. His guitar has been taken from its case and propped upon a slightly bent metal stand. By now, his black eye has healed to the point that it’s barely noticeable. All the bruises from the most recent incident are hidden beneath his clothes. The room is silent, save for the scratching of Karkat’s pen as they write in their notebook off screen.**

> According to the absolute fuckin’ shit that is Eastern Standard Time, I should be saying ‘good evening’ right now. I think. Probably. Whatever.

**Shrugging, DAVE backs away from his spot just far enough to grab his guitar. The action reveals that he’s seated in a cherry red wheelchair—the sort of red that’s an absolute eyesore when it’s put under bright light. He pulls back up to his former position and plucks at his guitar strings. As he tunes the instrument, he continues speaking.**  

> Name’s Dave Strider. Or, I guess, dstrindustries. Coming in from the East Coast of the US of A. I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be an intro video, so…

**Despite his successful tuning of the guitar, DAVE sets it aside. He backs up again, until he can see his chair, and, once again, shrugs.**

> Twenty. White. If you go back far enough, I’m probably English or something. Like it fuckin’ matters. Anyhow, I like to think I’m good at guitar. Music major. Hope to make the Strider name famous. All that jazz.

**There’s a brief pause. DAVE repositions himself in his chair. Once he’s back in his seat, he turns so that the chair is more obvious.**

> If you somehow haven’t noticed… This is my sweet ride. Still haven’t gotten around to installing the jet engines, but it comes with some pretty cool options for passive-aggressively running over people’s toes.

**DAVE turns back to face the camera. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forwards slightly.**

> Might make this channel a regular thing. Might not. Still thinking it all over. If I do…

**DAVE approaches the camera once more. He grabs his guitar and proceeds to play a short, rapid segment of the Cowboy Bebop opening. When he’s done, he offers a satisfied smile.**

> That’s probably shit quality, but I’m broke as fuck. So, hey, if you want to be a cool person and help out a starving music student, feel free to send me some money. I have no shame, only empty pockets. Until I decide to make another of these things, this is Dave Strider, checking out.

* * *

Now, there’s a grand total of two videos on Dave’s channel.

One is his introduction. The other is the twenty minute elevator music video which, for some strange reason, has somehow managed to attract a whole five views. Seeing as the video had no tags and only had the title of “[THIS IS A PLACEHOLDER, Y’ALL]”, Dave’s not exactly sure how anyone could have found it. Not that it’s really something worth worrying about.

“Are you done filming your shitty intro, Strider?”

Dave backs away from his desk and glances up. He’s able to see only the uppermost slivers of Karkat’s hair. “Done. I’m not sure how I feel about it, though.”

“I hate to admit it,” Karkat sighs, “But you’re pretty cute. I’m sure people will eat you up like fucking chocolate. The only thing you’re missing is the ugly gold foil wrapping.”

“That can be arranged, though.”

“How about you fucking don’t?” Another sigh. There’s a loud thud as Karkat drops a book from their bed to the floor and descend from their lofted bed. “What’s the point of this, anyhow? You secretly fucking off to attention?”

“Maybe.” Dave pushes his shades up long enough for him to know that Karkat sees his wink. Then, he drops them back into place. “No, I’m just curious. Maybe having a channel would start my music career up.”

“Or it’ll make you look like an attention-grabbing asswipe.” Shrugging, Karkat picks up their book. They set it on their desk’s shelf and sit down. They open their laptop, log onto their Google account, and navigate to Dave’s video.

A few seconds later, the first thumbs up comes in.

( _Is Jade right…? Does it matter if Jade is right…?_ )

“Hey, Karkat.”

“Hm?”

“Do you like girls?”

There’s a brief moment of silence. Then, loud, clearly fake laughter. When they deem their point has been received, they stop and answer with a succinct, “No. I prefer guys.”

“So… You like dicks?”

“Ew.” They cringe. “Strider, what the fuck? No. I like romance. I don’t give two shits about whatever the fuck is down there. Those are your mysterious erotic bits and you can keep them to yourself for all I care.”

“Me… specifically?”

A loud, frustrated groan. Karkat spins around to face Dave. “I don’t give a single flying, flame-belching shit about sex. It doesn’t interest me. I’m _asexual_. Is this so hard to understand?”

“But… You’ve got a penis, right? You’ve got that manly primal need to fuck everything, right?”

( _The more you say, the deeper you dig your grave. And you’re already way deeper than six fuckin’ feet. But you have to know._ )

“How about we not ask disgusting personal questions?” Karkat groans. “Look, if you’re trying to say in a roundabout way that you want to fucking date me, I gladly accept. There. Does that settle it, you blond douchebag?”

Dave swallows. His mind shuts down and his actions are switched into autopilot mode. “But I’m not… I’m straight as hell. I like girls.”

“You like Jade. And, if anything, you don’t seem like you’d be to against getting yourself a bit of John.” Karkat folds their arms across their chest. They take a deep breath in and exhale slowly. When they speak, though, the annoyance is still there. It’s thick and heavy and it weighs down their normally pleasant voice. “You’re bisexual. It’s not all that uncommon.”

“But…” Dave frowns.

( _When you first told Bro about John, the result was a smashed computer. He didn’t get a new one for another three months; and, when he did, it came with a major stipulation. “Don’t you go turning into a f— on me, Dave. You hear me? You’re worth more than doing it up the ass with some other guy.”_

 _At some point after that, Bro had pulled you from the computer and sat you down. Told you about how the world supposedly worked. “People with tits. You want people with tits. Those are girls. Because there has and never will be a gay Strider.”_ )

“Well,” Karkat sighs, “I see that I’ve scrambled your mental facilities too much. There’s probably an all-out war going on in that head of yours, so I’ll leave you to it for now.”

 

* * *

 

At some point, Karkat ends up running into Jade on the way back to the dorm.

The two end up talking. Small talk, mostly. What’s the weather? ( _Shitty._ ) What time is it? ( _Late._ ) Eventually, though, it circles around to what they can only assume is common ground between themself and Jade.

“How’s Dave doing?”

Karkat laughs bitterly. “He’s suddenly obsessed with sexuality for some reason. At least, he was when I left the room…”

“His brother was the textbook definition of homophobic,” admits Jade. “No one’s sure why. But it rubbed off big time on Dave.”

“Oh.” Karkat falls silent. They stare at the ground in front of them and watch as their shadow shifts with the lights which line the sidewalk. “And John…?”

“John’s straight. Super straight. But…”

“Hm?” Looking towards Jade, they can see her obvious apprehension. “I won’t tell anyone. Fucking promise.”

“Okay.” Jade shrugs. “You think telling you will help him?”

“I don’t know,” they admit. “But it’s not doing much good staying between the satanic quadrilateral that is you, Rose, John, and him.”

“Okay. Well… It’s a long story, but the summary is that he and John had a thing at one point. Like, he was in way deep for John.”

“And Bro didn’t approve?”

Jade frowns. She, too, averts her gaze. “He told us he was going to talk about it and we didn’t see him again for another two weeks.”

 

* * *

 

The minute Karkat reenters the room, Dave Strider tenses.

( _He IS attractive. And he IS pretty damned cute. And, somehow, even his vulgar rants are charming; at the very least, the words he can come up with are hilarious. And his hair… You bet it’s soft. Soft and light and fluffy but thick. Thicker than yours. Like… John level thick… And his hands are so warm…_ )

He gathers all the courage about him as he can. He wrings his hands together and, then, forces himself to speak. “Sorry.”

“For what? Earlier?”

“Yeah. That was shitty of me. I was just… It’s a long story.” He shrugs. Folds his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. “Do you… like me?”

“You’re an asshole,” Karkat responds with hesitation, “But, yes. I think you’re nice to look at. You’ve got a decent personality when you’re not trying to be the most toxic alpha male stereotype ever.”  Here, they offer a small smile.

And, within Dave, a sense of euphoria stirs. “Oh…” he manages.

“Yeah.” Karkat shrugs. “Figured I might as well come clean with liking a douchebag. Anyhow, it’s late. I’m going to bed.”

“It’s only ten.”

“It’s late,” Karkat repeats, “I’m going. To bed.” With that said, they climb to their lofted mattress. “Good night, Strider.”

“G’night…”

( _Ooooh. You’ve done it. You’ve gone and gotten yourself into a whole heaping pile of shit. Look at you, Strider. Look at you. You’re covered in shit. You reek of shit. See, this is exactly what you were trying to avoid. What Bro was trying to teach you to avoid._ )


	19. "You want a goddamned painting?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[You Can't Take Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fin1dn-eU78)**  
>  Bryan Adams  
>  ** _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_** (2002) | A &M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how about this one   
>  i paint a nice picture by smearing your fuckin face on the floor

Thursdays.

Thursdays suck.

Like… Fuck. Even Thirsty Thursdays don’t make up for the bullshit that is Scratch’s class.

And today’s certainly not the exception. Nope. Not at all.

It’ the same endless stream of degradation and bullshit. The same three phrases repeating like a broken record.

Yes, sir. No, sir. Sorry, sir.

Yes, sir. No, sir. Sorry, sir.

Yes, sir. No, sir. Sorry, sir.

“Did you try? My jacket can do better.” Yes, sir. The 

“Do you think that you will ever be worth anything more than a loser? A freak?” No, sir.

“You disgust me.” Sorry, sir.

( _He’s probably right. It’s not like you’ve got much of a future. It’s not like musical instruments are inherently designed to be accessible. Hell, the world isn’t designed that way. That doesn’t mean you’re not going to prove him dead wrong, though. Because, goddammit, you are Dave Strider._ )

“Yeah? Well, you fucking disgust me.” That’s Karkat’s voice. Karkat is doing well in this class. What the hell are they doing?

“So do you, Vantas. Now, sit down before I deduct points from your grade.”

Karkat stands up, their folding chair clattering to the floor. “ _Vete a la chingada._ You’re nothing more than a fucking bully, Scratch. And I’m going to report your pathetic ass to administration.”

“Have fun with that. Do you have evidence? And can you convince David to join you? Because you need the offended party to make a valid case.”

“Quit it, Karkat,” Dave snaps. “Sit down.”

“Yeah? Why? Because you’ve got some bullshit pride complex? You won’t report this bastard?” Karkat’s practically yelling. The fingers of both of his hands are curled into shaking fists. “ _Idiota_.”

“Sit down.” Dave’s voice is louder, now. He struggles to keep it in check—to keep the rising and enigmatic emotions from finding their way into his words. “Sit. Down.”

An exasperated sigh. Karkat rolls their eyes and sets their chair upright before loudly dropping into it, arms folded across their chest in defiance.

 

* * *

 

Why the hell won’t he listen?

He never seems to fucking listen.

Why?

“Strider,” Karkat hisses. “Strider?”

Dave sighs. He turns to face Karkat. “I appreciate the effort, dude. Really, I do. But I can handle myself.”

“But…”

Dave shrugs. “Look, you’re the one who said that I should knock this bastard’s socks off. If I make something that even he can’t deny is damned amazing…”

“Like what? You’re not exactly Caravaggio.” ( _Oops. That was mean. Time for you to backtrack._ ) “I mean… Sorry. That was fucking awful.”

“No, you’re right,” agrees Dave. “Just let me think it out. I’ve got a while. It’s been, what? Two weeks?”

“Just about.”

“Then we have time.”

Karkat laughs nervously. “You’re talking about this like an assassination plot.”

“If you mean killing Scratch’s career, then you’re right.” Dave smirks.

( _Dear God why is this asshole so damned cute?_ )


	20. About that "D&D" thing...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Period](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vx69Pe7Ncs)**  
>  Chemistry  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_** (2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p sure it stands for dudes and dragons   
>  or even better daves and dragons   
>  oh hell why not upgrade now and get the all new dave and dave game

It’s not so much desperation as it is frustration that drives Karkat to show up at Rose’s dorm door at noon on Friday. It’s a sense of confusion as to what the hell they were even falling for—the real Dave versus the shiny, seemingly invulnerable outer shell. And, so it is that Karkat finds themself sitting on the floor of the dorm like an awkward house guest. Specfically, that one sad sack who gets to the party too late to actually get a spot on the sofa. They stare upwards, towards Rose and Kanaya, and feel as if they’re being interrogated.

And, the minute that Rose opens her mouth, that feeling only increases.

“So… You’re here because you…” The illusion fades quickly as Rose stifles her laughter. Poorly. “Sorry. I’m just… You. And my cousin.” After a few seconds of looking like the laughter is about to explode from within her, she falls back against the bed in a fit of snickering.

Kanaya then takes over, albeit with a fair amount of reluctance. “You like Dave, correct?”

“I… think so…”

“And what about him do you like?”

“I…” Karkat freezes. What the hell do they like about Dave? Beyond the fact that he’s pretty damned nice to look at… “He’s kind of funny sometimes, I guess. And…” ( _Who the hell do you like?_ ) Rose’s laughter isn’t helping much. “He’s good at guitar. And he’s admittedly cool. But, like, he’s a huge fucking dork.”

“Okay…” A hum of thought. Kanaya ponders the meaning of Karkat’s words for a few minutes before finally responding in her usual, careful way. “Well, from what I know about Dave…” A spurt of poorly stifled laughter escapes her, too.

And, to Karkat’s chagrin, Kanaya also ends giving in to a useless fit of giggling. “Goddammit.”

As if summoned by the pure powers of Karkat’s frustration, Rose pops back up. She offers a somewhat embarrassed smile and toys with a pink bracelet she’s wearing as she continues. ( _Holy fuck is that a slap bracelet?_ ) “Sorry, Karkat. So… um… From what I know of Dave, you seem to have been smitten with a mixture of both of his personalities.”

“Both?” Karkat mutters. ( _Oh my God. That is. That is a slap bracelet. Where the fuck did Rose get that?_ )

“Dave presents as a cool, level-headed douchebag, right?”

“I didn’t expect you to say it so bluntly, but… Yeah.” ( _Ask her where she got that slap bracelet. ASK HER. Wait. No. Shut up. Not until you get the good shit._ )

Kanaya, too, now sits up. She doesn’t seem embarrassed by her outburst; but, as usual, she offers valuable information. “The Dave that’s under that is, according to Rose, a more timid person. He’s generally unsure of himself and doesn’t take well to harsh criticism.”

“Well… That solves the art problem.”

“Yeah. But the thing with Dave is that I only know this from careful observation,” Rose points out. “And, if you want Dave, you’re probably going to have to go through some of the ugly shit that’s happened around him.”

“Like…?”

“I’m not the person to tell you.” An innocent but encouraging smile. Rose reaches into her pocket and pulls forth a crumpled photo of a man who looks a whole lot like an older version of Dave alongside an older version of herself. Both in their mid-forties. Both the spitting image of the stereotypical proud parent. An older boy who seems to take more after the mother in the shape of his face and thin, pointed nose, stands in front of the man. And, in front of the woman, is a much, much younger image of… “Dave doesn’t know I have this, so let’s keep that between us, okay?”

Karkat nods. They squint at the photo, trying to see how the child in the photo wound up as the person they know now. And, honestly, they can’t. Still, they pocket the photo.

 

* * *

 

“You’re telling me that I can’t be a goddamned sexy elf rogue?” Dave emphasizes his words by slapping the papers in his hand like some sort of anime lawyer. “I will be the fuckin’ hottest elf rogue.”

Another man—with short black hair, olive skin, and red/blue shades—sighs. When he speaks, his lisp is apparent. “Strider, what the fuck? We can’t just play a regular game?”

“Of course we can,” says Dave, keeping his voice as reassuring as possible. “I’ll just be a sexy elf. It’s a background trait.”

“Jade, why the fuck did you bring this dork?”

Jade offers an innocent smile. She shrugs.

Next to her, another girl—dark brown skin, mid-length hair, and red shades—responds with a cackle. “I’m liking this guy. C’mon, Sollux. We might as well wait and see how the sexy elf rogue fares in my dragon hell world.”

“Yeah. See. I have support from the DM.”

Jade snickers. “Do you even know how to play this game, Dave?”

“Of course I…” He pauses. ( _If you say you do, you’ll have to prove it later._ ) “Don’t.”

“Why is this dipshit _here_!?” As he speaks, Sollux buries his face in his hands.

“Because we need at least three players for dragon hell to work.”

“Terezi,” Sollux whines.

“SILENCE!” Terezi’s voice carries surprisingly well. It echoes and, within the small unused classroom the group is occupying, its effect is akin to a rumble of thunder. “You said you wanted to play the dragon hell map, bee dork. So we’re playing the fucking dragon hell map.”

Here, Dave responds with a snort of laughter. “I’m digging Terezi. Hell yeah. Assert your power.”

“There will be no digging in dragon hell.”

“Oh. Oops.”

Jade clears her throat and speaks up. “Thanks for inviting us, Terezi.”

“No prob.” With a wide, toothy grin, Terezi acknowledges the commentary. “Now, let’s get this fucker going. I don’t have all day, kids. There are places to do and things to see.”

“ _You’re blind,_ ” groans Sollux.

Another wicked grin. A shrug of facetious innocence. “The dragon master takes five points from all of your attributes, Sollux. Stop being a whiner. Start being a _winner_.”

“Correction,” Dave butts in, “I’m the winner. I’m _always_ the winner.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots.” A sigh of defeat marks the end of Sollux’s apparent efforts to create a regular game of D&D.

And Jade, in her usual timely manner, speaks up. “Can I be a fairy warrior?”

“GODDAMMIT.”

“Two more attribute points from Sollux.” ( _Terezi is enjoying this way too much. Note to self: Don’t piss off Terezi._ ) “Of course you can, Jade.”

“Aw hell yeah.” Dave and Jade high-five.

Sollux commences a cycle of beating his forehead against a desk in between utterances of various profanities. Some of them, at least by Dave’s guess, seem to be in Italian.

 

* * *

 

It’s midnight before Dave shows up and, by then, Karkat has taken up residence in his bed. However, it’s hard to ignore the sound of someone barging through the door as loudly as he tends to.

“Yo. Kark.”

“ _Don’t call me Kark_ ,” comes an exasperated reply. ( _Although, admittedly, you’re getting used to it._ )

Dave laughs. Reaches into his pocket and tosses up to his roommate a bag of slightly melted chocolate coins. “Conquered some of dragon hell for you. Have some of the loot.”

“I really hope this isn’t some sort of freaky fucking German dungeon porn or…”

Another laugh from Dave. ( _It seems genuine. What the hell has him so relaxed?_ )

“Where’ve you been, you fucknugget?”

“Oh!” From the noises below, Karkat assumes he’s opening a chocolate coin. “Jade and I played D&D with some people from the agricultural club.”

“There’s an agricultural club?”

“Well. Yeah.” He says it as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re riding the line between suburbia and rural… ruralia?”

“That’s not a word, dipshit.”

“Well, then,” Dave huffs facetiously. “I’ll just take the spoils of my hard-fought war back, you ingrate.”

Karkat, still roughly 25% still asleep, shrugs. They reply with a hiss. “ _Nunca._ ”

There’s a snicker of laughter from below. Then, relative silence.

And, after praising every deity they can think of for such a wonderful gift—the gift of silence on behalf of motherfucking Dave Strider—Karkat falls back to sleep.


	21. "Is this how you vlog?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[And Your Bird Can Sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLU90xSalko)**  
>  The Beatles  
>  ** _Revolver_** (1966)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you just talk about yourself and shit   
>  because if it is this is gonna be easy

**DAVE STRIDER, a 20-year-old blond with a near-constant air of cockiness to him, sits in his usual cherry red wheelchair in the center of the video. He’s abandoned his former formal look and now wears a plain red and white baseball shirt—this one short-sleeved—and a pair of his usual fingerless protective gloves.**

> DAVE  
>  Okay, so. Second video. Name’s still Dave and I’m still majoring in music. Haven’t died quite yet and don’t really plan on doing that any time soon… And… Hm…

**Behind mirrored black sunglasses, his eyes drift to the plain text document he’s pulled up on his computer. In it, he’s copied and pasted the modest handful of questions he’s received from a pool of about twelve different people. Some of them have a comment written in brackets to their left—[IGNORE]. He tilts back absentmindedly, balancing easily on the back two wheels as he continues.**

> DAVE  
>  Apparently, people are actually interested in me. And that’s not really that surprising. I might as well be the smug old fucker who’s in the Dos Equis commercials. Because I _am_ the most interesting person in the world. So, hey, you all asked some questions and I might as well answer them.

**There’s a muffled thud as DAVE drops back into the proper position. He folds his arms across his chest and chews on his lip for a moment before taking a deep breath and beginning his impromptu question and answer video.**

> DAVE  
>  Being real here, I’m not comfortable answering some of these questions. But I’ll answer the ones that I’m cool with. So, number one… “Is the chair real or is it a prop?” Well, buddy, it’s real. I can make a whole video of me flopping around like a fish out of water if you want me to prove it to you. Not sure where you’d get such a sweet ride for shits and giggles, anyhow. Unless you’re rich, I guess. And I’m not, so… On that note, remember to donate. DStri@sburb.com.

**A brief pause. He hums—mostly to himself—a random tune.**

> DAVE  
>  Question two… “Can I walk at all?” Well. For one thing, that’s not really your business but I’ll answer it anyhow. Because I’m a wonderful person. So…

**DAVE leans his elbows against his knees and balances his upper body against them. He folds his hands together in a very Gendo Ikari-esque manner.**

> DAVE  
>  Basic answer is a pretty solid negative. But I guess that depends on what you’re actually asking, dude. I don’t really have any actual interest in it, to be honest. It’s annoying and takes way too much time and energy. So. Fuck that. Technically, I can stand with support. But there’s no weight on my legs, so… Does that count? Does it? I don’t know. Vote now on your phones, I guess?

**There’s a moment of awkward silence followed by an awkward laugh. DAVE glances away from the camera, though it’s not apparent behind his shades.**

> DAVE  
>  A few people wanted to know what happened to me and I’m not getting into that. Sorry. I’m just not comfortable spilling that to the whole world. So, if you’re one of those people, sorry. But that’s a pretty invasive and fuckin’ rude question, anyhow. Like… You don’t know me. At all. And I don’t know you. How would you feel if I just came up to you in the street and asked, “Hey, bro, why is your face so ugly?” That’s a no-no. Just for your… um… future reference…

**The video cuts. When it returns, DAVE has moved a bit closer to the camera.**

> DAVE  
>  Last few questions. “What instruments do I play?” I do guitar and piano. I prefer the guitar. To use the piano, I ended up having to gut an electric one and pull out the trigger mechanism for the pedal. Pretty ugly little thing. Wrap it in a plastic bag and stick it in my mouth and biting down activates it. Not a very aesthetically pleasing solution…

**To demonstrate this, DAVE pulls from his pocket the aforementioned mechanism. It’s been haphazardly fused to a USB cord and is roughly the size of a quarter. He rotates it between his fingers for a few moments before setting it aside and rolling his shoulders.**

> DAVE  
>  “Do you write your own music?” Sometimes. “Will I marry you?” No. I’m kind of… maybe taken? Not too sure. But the lowdown here is that I’m not interested. Thank you for your interest, though. Please take a number and wait in line for customer service. “Do I wear regular clothes?” That depends. I’ve got some adaptive clothing. And I’ve modified some of my stuff to work better for me. Shoes, though. Shoes are great. Because I can buy a pair and use them for goddamned near eternity.

**Apparently amused by his own joke, DAVE snickers quietly.**

> DAVE  
>  So. That’s it for this video, I guess. I’ll get to the third one at some point…

* * *

 

“I, the great Sexyln, beguile the ravenous dragon with a sensual interpretive dance.” As he finishes saying this, Dave releases his hold on the dice. The result is a resounding success. And, to celebrate this, Dave offers himself a congratulatory fist pump. “The sexy elf rogue strikes again.”

Sollux, meanwhile, groans.

And, the newly inducted Karkat does, too. They’ve been inducted into the game as the “Great but Normal Vanilla Human.”

“We can’t play this fucking game right? Just once? Just. Once, Strider. I just want a normal fucking game,” Sollux groans, his lisp as thick as his obvious exasperation. “Just play the game straight.”

“But that’s no fun, dude,” Dave shrugs.

Jade nods in agreement. “Totally. I like this game. It’s… um… Unpredictable.”

“I concur,” Terezi says, nodding.

( _You love being right._ )

“Why the fuck am I here, Strider?” Karkat groans.

“Because you said you had, quote-unquote, fucking nothing to do. So you followed me and accepted my quest to help take over the great Dragon Hell and claim it in the name of the Beloved Heavenly Salamander.” The words are said with the utmost flatness—a poignant sense of matter-of-factness. And Dave backs them with one of his trademark smirks. Balancing between the chair and the desk, he leans his elbow on the table and gestures haughtily. “Have you not devoted your very life to the Beloved Heavenly Salamander, Monk Vantas?”

“You’re Christian. Isn’t this some sort of devil worship?”

Dave laughs. “Jesus can take a joke, dude. Now,” he clears his throat and adopts a stuffy, nasal British accent, “Join me, Vantas. We must reclaim the Land of the Holy Salamanders.”

A flash of a smile—a flicker of amusement. “You’re a fucking dork, Strider.”

“I know,” says Dave, extending his hand towards his roommate, “But it is your destiny, young Vantas.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Karkat rolls their eyes, though the faint smile is still there. They reach out and grab Dave’s hand.

( _So warm. Lovely. You’ve always had cold hands._ )

“Fantastic. Then it’s settled. We’re adventuring deeper into Dragon Hell.”

From Sollux comes a moan of frustration. He slams his forehead against the table. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Stop whining, start winning,” Terezi hums. “We’ve added another dragon to our party. Dave, would Sexyln like to name this dragon?”

“Casey.”

Terezi nods. “Great. We’ve got Assmunch and Casey, both high level fire dragons, on the team.”

“Woah. Wait. You named a dragon _Assmunch_?” interjects Karkat, their brows furrowed in confusion. “You… You can’t name a majestic mythological beast fucking _Assmunch_.”

“Objection!” Terezi slams her fist against the table with a surprising amount of force. ( _You probably shouldn’t, but you’ll be damned if you pass up this chance to start beatboxing the Phoenix Wright theme._ ) “Dragon Hell is a dystopian wasteland. Rules are irrelevant. Karkat, your statement is now thrown out of court.”

“But you just said there’s no law in Dragon Hell,” says Sollux.

“There has to be law,” points out the ever-cheerful Jade, “Otherwise, we’d have a free-for-all gladiator game right now.”

Another groan from Sollux.

The dice pass to Karkat, who, despite their demeanor, seems to me enjoying themself. At the very least, they’re smiling—and that’s not something that Dave sees often.

 

* * *

 

When Karkat returns from dinner around seven o’clock, they find Dave sprawled out on the floor.

His head is propped up on what seems to be the removed cushion of his wheelchair and his attentions are occupied by an oddly familiar black 3DS.

“Strider?”

“Hm?” He raises his shades and, as usual, focuses his gaze a few degrees to the left of Karkat. “Oh. You’re back. Cool.” He drops the shades back into place. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” They toss their bag so that it lands by their desk and sit down in their desk chair. “What the fuck are you doing on the floor?”

“Playing Animal Crossing.”

“You’re playing Animal Crossing?”

“Don’t judge. I’ve seen your stash of romantic novels, dude. I saw them when you moved in.”

Karkat’s cheeks heat up, though they don’t allow themself to react beyond that. “No, really, why’re you on the floor?”

A shrug. After setting aside his game, Dave twists his upper body until he flops onto his stomach. Then, after retrieving the console, he answers. “I’m supposed to do stretches or something. Like. An hour every day. But I had to water my flowers and I have a hot date with some bells.”

“What?”

“Bells. Y’know? The currency in—”

“I know what you’re talking about, Strider,” Karkat sighs.

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Cool.”

“Where’d you get that, anyhow? It looks just like mine.”

“Oh.” A wide grin. Dave snickers. “That’s ‘cause it is, dude. Why would I have one?”

“You’ve been playing _my_ game of Animal Crossing!?”

“You haven’t been. I mean… So many weeds everywhere. You could’ve made a fortune selling all that pot if the weeds were weed… weed… Fuck.” Another shrug. He seems to quickly disregard his failed attempt at a joke.

As a sigh of defeat leaves Karkat, they take solace in the fact that Dave at least improved their town rather than ruin it. They gather their things, toss them onto their bed, and climb up. It’s not all that much—a history reading and some other, assorted things.


	22. "Get fuckin rekt"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Brothers Under the Sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Okl8Lgcx94w)**  
>  Bryan Adams  
>  ** _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_** (2002) | A &M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because here comes master strider   
> 

Karkat sighs.

The more they think about it, the more they realize that they’ve racked up more instances of that “holy shit this was such an awful idea” feeling in the past few weeks of knowing Dave goddamned Strider than they have in perhaps their entire life. There’s the whole falling for the cocky fucker and the D&D session. And, now, they’re stuck in the massive gym complex waiting for Dave to finally take his fucking shot in pool.

“You’ve been doing this for the past ten minutes, Strider,” they groan.

And Dave, his body awkwardly stretched between his chair and the edge of the table, shrugs. “Shut up, dude. I’m going to make a fuckin’ rad shot.”

“I’ve only taken one shot. And that to break the fucking triangle.”

“Sh.” A quiet _tch_. Dave draws back his cue and, with a refined delicacy, hits it against the cue ball. Pushes back, falters slightly as he tries to regain his balance, and ends up using the pool cue to hold him up until he rights himself.

Meanwhile, the cue ball smacks against a cluster of three solid balls. All of them spread out and bounce around the table before, somehow, all landing in a pocket. Not simultaneously, of course. One of the balls is the sort that rolls with an infuriating sense of self-entitlement. The one that takes its time in making it to the corner; but, when it does, it goes down smoothly.

Karkat responds to this development with a dissatisfied hiss. “Fuck you, Strider.”

“Let’s maybe _not_ do that in public?” Dave says, smirking, “Or at least clear the table.”

“Ew.” With a long, thoughtful sigh, Karkat lines up their shot. They calculate in their head the angle and of their initial impact and where the ball could go and… When it hits, the cue ball proceeds to speed straight to one of the edges. It then pops over the edge and rolls across the floor, much to their chagrin. “Fuck.”

“You can have a do-over,” Dave offers as he rubs some more chalk onto the end of his cue. “It’s not exactly a tournament.”

“I’m not taking a fucking reshot from you,” Karkat mutters, tossing the ball back to Dave.

And Dave, with ease, catches it. He quirks his brow and smirks. Another calculated shot sinks two more solids.

A defeated huff comes from Karkat. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?”

“Physical therapy,” Dave shrugs. “Bro was kind of obligated to let me go. Not that I was allowed to leave the hospital for a while after getting a section of my spine fuckin’ obliterated.”

“They taught you how to play pool?” Not surprisingly, Karkat’s shot doesn’t fare as well. It does, however, manage to stay on the table this time. ( _Which is, you suppose, a mild improvement?_ )

Dave’s shot, however, fails to sink anything. ( _You’re mildly suspicious of him going easy on you but you can’t be too sure… Not with Dave…_ ) “It’s for balance and coordination. The point is that I have no so-called core control, so I just kind of flop.” He continues to absentmindedly rub more chalk onto his cue as he speaks. ( _You’re starting to think that he’s a fidgeter. He’s always got to have something happening for him to stay focused on the world around him._ ) “At least where I was, it was also a more social activity than most of the others. You actually got to talk to people.”

A slow nod. Another missed shot, though this one somehow manages to sink one of the solid balls. “Are we even playing by the actual rules?”

“I fudged a few. You have a fuckin’ problem with it?” Though his words are harsh, he puts a sense of good-natured insincerity to them. A casual, humorous twist. “Anyhow, Bro hated it. Said I was getting to close and comfy with a bunch of softies.”

“Softies?”

“People who he thought couldn’t fight,” Dave shoots as he finishes his sentence. Again, he misses. “Which is wrong, seeing as self-defense was included in the kind of daily life stuff they made everyone do. But…” He sighs. Though Karkat can’t see his eyes, they get a sense that he’s looking away from them. “Bro was an ass. I guess.”

“That’s a change.” ( _He’s definitely going easy on you._ )

He shrugs. As Karkat lines up their shot, Dave spins his cue between his fingers. “He never did come to visit. Or send anything. See, where I went had its own private rehab center. And we were grouped by age. So, I was with a bunch of other kids. And most of them got regular visits and gifts and… I got fuckin’ nothing. Sure, sometimes I called Bro; but, he never called me. And every time I called, he’d dismiss me. Said he didn’t care about what the hell I was learning.”

“Oh.” ( _Where the hell is this coming from?_ )

A somewhat distant sigh. “Yeah. And I was there a while. The stuff they put me back together with kept coming lose. Not that it mattered. I didn’t get it fixed again until I was nearly fuckin’ eighteen.”

Again, Karkat nods. By now, they’ve stopped paying attention to the game.

“All the other kids would have parents or siblings or aunts who’d show up on big days. Like, wow, little Jimmy learned how to use a shower chair. His parents came with cupcakes for everyone.” The cue stops spinning. He holds it horizontally in front of him, seemingly studying it. ( _Although, as usual, you can’t tell because of those goddamned shades._ ) “Birthdays were another thing. Kids got toys and shit.”

“Did you ever get anything?”

Dave responds with a bitter, empty laugh. “I got a note calling me a little bitch. They’d sent him a letter telling him some shit about providing an encouraging environment. Something like, ‘Hey, you have a kid here and it might be nice if you show up or send something nice every now and then to motivate him to keep learning instead of spending hours locked in his room.’ …Are you planning on shooting any time soon?”

“Oh. Fuck.” Primarily to placate Dave’s concern, Karkat takes a shot. To their surprise, it manages to sink one of the striped balls. At Dave’s urging, they then take a second, less successful shot.

And, as he approaches to take his turn, Dave continues, “I tore it up and flushed it down the toilet. And, when he finally showed up, it was only on the day he had to take me home. They told him about daily care and, yeah, he acted all cheery there and agreed to help me out. But, when we got outside, he turned around and told me to deal with it myself.” He shoots, sinks two at a time. ( _He was going easy on you._ )

“Yeah… So, why did you defend him before?”

“Because he’d tell me he was sorry and gave me things.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah… But… I don’t know. He’s the last member of my immediate family I have left.”

As Karkat missed, Dave takes another turn. With none of the solids left, he simply pockets the eight ball. He haphazardly returns his cue to the rack and waits for Karkat nearby. “It’s a lot of bullshit. Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine,” they say, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

And, as if by instinct, Dave wheels back. His muscles tense. Once he realizes what’s happening, however, he relaxes. “No, really. Sorry. I should keep my shit to myself. It’s not your mess to clean up.” A halfhearted smile and a shrug end his statement. He offers a brief wave and turns quickly. “I’m going back to the room. Thanks for a good game, though.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Karkat returns to the dorm, Dave has returned to his usual, apathetic self.

He’s perched atop his bed with his guitar in his lap and sheets of paper spread around him. He strums a few notes, scribbles something on one of the pages with a pencil he pulls from behind his ear, and offers a greeting without ever looking up. “Welcome back. Working on music. Good night.”

( _Impressive. At least he seems to know your routine._ )

Karkat responds with a mildly more sincere goodnight and changes before clambering into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probs going to end up a fluff dump so if there's anything you wanna see go ahead and suggest it


	23. "A meme in itself"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Felt Tip Pen**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUNvJ5Plo-0)  
>  Yoko Kanno & The Seatbelts  
>  ** _Cowboy Bebop_** (1998) | Victor Entertainment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my channel will become a genre in itself   
>  the work which will become a genre in itself   
>  now someone come help me beatbox tank

** If the position of the shadow cast on the floor of the room is any indicator, it’s somewhere around noon. For want a more solid indicator, however, the clock literally taped to the wall that’s visible to the camera also reads 12:00. DAVE, a seemingly arrogant young man who just so happens to have a hidden soft spot for all things small and fluffy, is positioned in the center of the image. His clothes seem to indicate that it’s beginning to get a bit colder. His usual baseball shirt is beneath a gaudy red leather bombing jacket. His hair is slightly messier than usual, though it’s not enough to be concerning. **

> DAVE  
>  According to some commenters, I’m an “annoying person” and I “need to get my head out of my ass.” Well, for starters, I’m flattered that you would take me so seriously that you’d find me annoying. Because, y’know, there’s that fuckin’ magical back button now. All new. Only came out forever ago. And, secondly, I’m surprisingly not that flexible.

**He folds his arms across his chest and smirks. It’s one of those small but effective expressions—one that very clearly conveys the message, “eat shit.”**

> DAVE  
>  So, anyhow, I’m Dave. This is my dorm. I’m not too sure what I’m doing here, but I guess, for now, I’ll answer some more questions? I don’t know. I’m saving up for some recording equipment to do some music shit but… Mm… Pretty broke at the minute. Which, by the way, is a great reminder to donate. My email’s in the description. Or bio. Or… Whatever it’s called…

**From somewhere off-screen, a voice interjects. This just so happens to be the voice of a certain KARKAT VANTAS, fairly short with an equally short temper, 19 years old, brown skin and dark brown to black hair. When they speak, the camera turns towards a lofted bed, though its occupant is at an angle at which they’re invisible to it.**

> KARKAT  
>  It’s called an about section, you fucking twit.

**The camera returns to DAVE. He smiles widely and begins to loudly introduce the apparent interruption.**

> DAVE  
>  And this is Karkat, my loud and angry roommate. They’re, what? Seven? Eight? How old are you, Kark?
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Stop calling me Kark before I throw you and your smug, shitty grin and your ugly red laptop out the fucking window. And I will. Don’t test me.
> 
> DAVE  
>  I’ve been testing you for, like, the past few fuckin’ weeks and you haven’t done anything, so I’d be damned surprised if you finally decided to go through with your threats.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  That’s it, Strider. THAT’S IT!

**KARKAT descends from the bed. They approach DAVE before stopping as they notice their face on the computer screen. This apparent realization prompts an innocent smile from DAVE.**

> DAVE  
>  If you murder me, there’s video evidence. And the authorities will be pissed. And then you’ll go to jail. And I’ll come back as a kick-ass ghost to fuckin’ haunt you and shit. And I’ll judge you for the rest of your life like. No, dude, don’t wear that tie. And, hey, remember that one time you fuckin’ killed me? That’s was hilarious. We should try again some time, y’know?
> 
> KARKAT  
>  …Do you listen to yourself at all or does absolute fucking shit just naturally spew from your mouth like water from Niagara Falls?
> 
> DAVE  
>  Hm. Little bit of both, actually.

**There’s a brief pause. KARKAT rolls their eyes and offers a huff of defeat before trotting out of the camera’s view. A soft thud is heard as the laptop is set back on the desk. The camera’s focus centers on DAVE once more.**

> DAVE  
>  Shouty McFucknubs, everyone. Give it up for Shouty McFucknubs. We’ll be here all week. Or… Well… Nah. I’ve got shit to do, honestly. Anyhow, I’ve pretty much forgotten what the fuck this video was for so I might as well wrap it up. Not like anyone wants more than a few minutes of me blabbering about fuckin’ irrelevant shit, right? Until next time, this is Dave Strider. Stay in school and just say “no” to homework. …Really, though, don’t do that. That’s a joke. Don’t sue me if you actually try that and it doesn’t work out for you.


	24. Define your definition of "a problem"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Beethoven's Fifth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAJqw9SF_QQ)**  
>  Trans-Siberian Orchestra  
>  ** _Beethoven's Last Night_** (2000) | Atlantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because it seems to me   
>  like we have completely different ideas of what a problem is

Not surprisingly, Dave Strider is the sort with a constant thumb on the action on campus. He’s got an ear everywhere and, through a variety of means, he knows of most of the campus gossip. As it often does, the gossip shifts from time to time. At the beginning of the year, it was about the freshman class. How many kids got kicked out before matriculation? How many have already dropped out? Then, it moved to some asinine bullshit about a widely disliked teacher.

Now, the word around the college focuses on a family by the name of Ampora. ( _You know the name from… somewhere. But… where?_ ) There are two of them, apparently. One is Eridan, who just so happens to be a freshman. The other is his older brother, Cronus, the head of Alpha double-Sigma, the biggest frat on campus. Apparently, both of them are rather cruel people. ( _Ampora… That name seems to familiar…_ ) Eridan has gained a reputation for finding and collecting the rat corpses from the traps that sporadically dot the school. By some accounts, he’s a tool.

Whatever the case, it’s come to Dave’s attention that the loud room at the end of the hallway—the one situated one room down and across the hall from his own, is occupied by Eridan. In fact, he’s certain he’s seen Eridan a few times. Fairly tall with black hair marked by a purple streak.

( _Ampora… Wasn’t that…?_ )

Now, though, these thoughts are little more than some of many fish swimming in the metaphorical ocean that is Dave’s mind. And, aside from them, there’s one other thought which dominates the water like a airship carrier—Oh shit.

“You. You’re the fucker who punched my brother.” The voice—its accent implacable—breaks through Dave’s thoughts.

He returns abruptly to reality and realizes that that voice is coming from a pretty pissed-off looking guy standing only a yard or two away. He opens his mouth to speak, only to be silenced as this enigmatic figure continues.

“I’m disappointed, though. My brother usually does a very thorough job.” The man steps forward.

And Dave, despite his mind telling him to roll back, simply stays in place. He flips the wheel locks—which, normally, he refers to as “brakes” in his thoughts because it absolutely sounds cooler.

The apparent enemy closes in slowly. He seems to take a great deal of delight in the amount of hesitation which proceeds Dave’s every action. The edges of his thin lips curl into a malevolent smirk. “Looks like he didn’t teach you enough of a lesson, though, seeing as you still have a full set of teeth.”

In his mind, Dave splits in two. One half—the side that is everything he is in human terms—his feelings and thoughts and consciousness—flee. The other half—the most basic human instinct of survival—a side only ever summoned when Bro was around—reacts. He disengages the wheel locks and pivots rapidly to avoid a punch thrown by his newfound opponent. He keeps going—one hand holding the left wheel in place while the other pushes the right—until he completes the loop and feels the back of his chair come into contact with his stunned attacker.

There’s a quiet thud and, slowly, Dave’s mind begins to merge back together. He backs away until he can see the offending party sprawled out on the ground. “So you’re… Eridan?” he mutters.

“You’re fucking dead,” is the embarrassed response as he scrambles back onto his feet. “And you’ll regret this, runt.” Having said this, the man gathers his things and disappears as quickly as he’d appeared. He leaves no trace of his presence beyond the end of a keyring—one that Dave can only assume got broken when the handles of his chair dug into Eridan’s side—that bears the Greek letters for the elder Ampora’s fraternity.

 

* * *

 

“You fought an Ampora?” From her spot several feet above and in front of Dave, in the gym bleachers, Rose groans. She buries her face in her hands and, in response, Kanaya gently but silently pats her on the shoulder. “You fought Cronus’s little brother, you twit.”

“I did?” Dave frowns. He absentmindedly tilts back and balances in a wheelie position. “And that means…?”

“ _Did you not notice the giant fucking sign that says Ampora Gym across campus?_ They’re one of the biggest donors to the school,” says Rose, her tone only slightly more anxious than usual. ( _Which, in the grand scheme of things, is barely anxious at all._ ) “And you’ve just made _both_ of them your enemy, Dave.”

“Cool?” Dave shrugs. He tips the chair forwards and lets it land properly on the floor. “Look, Rose, is this some sort of big problem? Because I’m not seeing it. I’m seeing you waving your arms in the air like you’re trying to tell a plane to not land in your cabbage patch. We actually getting to a point or…?”

Rose groans. “They have the college in the palm of their hands. Their family pulls all the strings,” she sighs. “Dave, you’ve got to apologize to one of them. Or, at the very least, avoid any future conflict with them.”

A slow nod and a mildly coherent quirk of the brow. Two from Dave’s standard ‘what the fuck does it matter’ package of stock reactions. “It’s fine, Rose. Don’t sweat it.”

“You’ve made the worst possible enemy you could have, Dave,” Rose shoots back, “I don’t classify that as a perfectly peachy situation.”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Not the point, Dave.”

“Okay. Fine.” With a huff of annoyance, Dave folds his arms across his chest. He rolls his eyes, though he’s perfectly aware of the fact that neither Rose nor Kanaya can see this. “I can take care of myself, Rose. I’m a grown-ass adult.”

“Who solves his problems with his fists,” she grumbles.

Again, Kanaya silently pats her on the back. For a brief moment, Dave’s line of vision meets Kanaya’s. The both exchange expressive looks—a combination of facial and bodily expression that says something along the lines of, ‘Who the fuck knows what is happening right now?’

“Really, Rose. I’ll handle it myself.”

“Fine.” It’s a sudden turn; though, considering Rose, it doesn’t exactly surprise Dave. “If you get your ass handed to you on a spectacularly polished, weed-scented silver platter, I’m not responsible. You’ve lost your rights to come complaining to me about this, Dave. I offered advice and you’ve flung it out the window.”

With a flash of what seems to be disappointment mixed with an equal serving of having-enough-of-this-shit, Rose stands up. She strides purposefully away and out of the gym; Kanaya trails her.


	25. "No I totally know what I'm doing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Hell of It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuikvl7zt3E)**  
>  Paul Williams  
>  ** _Phantom of the Paradise_** (1974)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> totally got this shit

**As the weather gets colder, there’s a noticeable change on campus. People’s outfits shift towards warmer items of clothing and, moreover, certain people begin taking precautions against certain things. Diseases, presumably, if the tiny bottles of hand sanitizer floating around are anything to go by. DAVE, born in December, 20 years old, also changes. Against any crowd, he’d seem out of place. Light jackets all around; and, then, there’s Dave—in his lined leather bomber jacket.**

**Right now, he sits in his usual spot—at the center position in the view of a laptop webcam. The lights are on full blast and his shades hide his eyes.**  

> DAVE  
>  Video… Seven? Eight? It’s… something… Sorry to the whole twelve fuckin’ subscribers I have for not uploading videos. Winter is just not my season. I mean… It used to be, but then shit happened and it’s pretty fuckin’ sucky, now.

**Backing away from the camera, DAVE grabs onto a blanket. He wraps himself in it—a ratty, ugly, red flannel patterned thing. He situates it so that it covers both the lower half of his upper body and his legs.**

> DAVE  
>  Fun fact: I can’t regulate my fuckin’ body temperature. So it’s just fuckin’ dandy here. Yep. Just sitting here. Freezing. All the time. Until summer. When I’m on fire. All the time. It’s fuckin’ lovely. But that’s enough of the Strider trademarked Suffering Train, so…

**Rubbing his hands together, DAVE continues.**

> DAVE  
>  Jade and I quietly broke up. Like… A week ago. Not sure if we ever _were_ together. Nothing big. She’s dating one of the newer members of the agricultural club, Fef. She’s pretty nice. Cheerful. Mildly condescending from time to time; but, hey, so is everybody. I’ve managed to get myself blacklisted by the major frat on campus. Keeping track, I’ve got seven whole threatening correspondences. My favorite is the one that’s all, “Oh, we’re going to break every bone in your body.” Well, whatever dipshit with their head up their ass sent that, that’s all nice and dandy. But it’ll only work for so long before you get to the point where I have to admit to you that you’ve been snapping bones for nothing.

**There’s a brief pause. A slight, sudden twitch of DAVE’s left knee.**

> DAVE  
>  Shout out to um…

**He wheels forward and leans close to the camera. Behind his shades, his eyes struggle briefly to find the information he’s looking for. Once he’s found it, however, DAVE continues without missing a beat.**

> DAVE  
>  Um… ‘butthole666.’ I’m not sure where you got it from, but I appreciate your donation of fifty dollars. You’re pretty rad. Change the username, though. Anyhow, this is Dave out. Again. It might be another week or two until I can stop trying to warm up by lighting myself on fire long enough to upload another video. And… that’s a joke. SCI—Er… I mean… Spinal cord injury or not, please don’t light yourself on fire. That’s a fuckin’ terrible idea.

 

* * *

 

From their perch atop their lofted bed, Karkat sighs. They stare at their assigned reading—something about Elizabeth I’s really awful attempt at creating a permanent American colony. They breathe a loud sigh.

And, from below, Dave comments. “You have some sort of bullshit reading, too?”

“No, I’m absolutely fascinated by colonial life. So fucking fascinating. Holy shit. Let’s just spend hours studying this until we’ve enlightened ourselves to the plight of these long-dead assholes.”

“Damn.” Dave snickers. “Well, if that’s how you really feel…”

“How I _really_ feel is a long and unnecessarily explicit string of mostly incoherent phrases which only roughly approximate my burning hatred for this class.”

“Thank you, Dictionary Dude.” Another snicker.

Karkat, in return, glances towards him. They watch as he downs his nightly medications and lifts himself into bed. “You’re going to bed?”

“Hell no,” Dave shoots back, sounding almost offended by the suggestion. “Why would I be going to bed? It’s barely eight. Who the fuck goes to bed this early?”

“My grandmother?” Karkat shrugs.

“And do I _look_ like your grandmother to you?” With an indignant huff, Dave folds his arms across his chest. He draws the bedsheets around him like some sort of massive, spiraling, convoluted cape of red. “I’m cold.”

“That’s why they invented blankets?”

“My ass wanted to be on something softer than a cheap leather pillowcase stuffed with the dead dreams of every kid who ever wanted a space age foam mattress and got some sort of cheap rip-off instead.”

Despite their best efforts, a laugh escapes Karkat. They roll their eyes and release a sigh of mild embarrassment. “It can’t be that bad, jackass.”

From his place, Dave scoots to the edge of his bed. He pulls the cushion from the chair—as, at least by Karkat’s observations, it seems to be secured with a strip of Velcro—and aims to toss it up to them.

Instead, the cushion flies at a steeper angle than intended. It hits the ceiling with a resounding… plop and/or thud ( _plud?_ ) before dropping anticlimactically to the ground, where it makes another plop and/or thud ( _definitely plud_ ).

Both occupants then spend the next minute—and not a metaphorical one, either, but a good, solid minute—staring at the slightly deflated-looking square shape in the middle of their dorm room floor.

“It’s very graceful, you know,” Dave ends up being the first to speak. He offers an enigmatic grin and fixes his shades. He pushes off of the edge of the bed and into a sitting position before scooting back to the spot he was in before whatever-the-fuck-just-happened happened. “Wants to be a ballet dancer.”

“It’s pretty shit at jumping, then,” Karkat comments. ( _You don’t usually respond to absolute bullshit like this so quickly. You can’t possibly be getting used to Dave’s crap, can you? And, if you are, is that… Is that actually bad?_ )

In reply, Dave offers a gasp of facetious shock. He lowers his voice to a comically loud whisper. “Don’t crush its dreams, Kark. That’s mean. Children are our future,” he says, quirking his brow so that it’s visible above the mirrored black surface of his shades’ left lens. “Think about the children and all that, right?”

“When was the last time you actually _thought about the children_ , you fucking twit?” Air quotes emphasize Karkat’s words. As does a roll of their eyes.

Dave, in his usual way, shoot back quickly. “I did when I was a kid. And that one time a kid stole my lunch money and I told him some bullshit about the fuckin’ wheelchair gnome.”

( _What? Do you want to know about this?_ ) “The…?”

“I pulled it out of my ass,” Dave says this with a sheepish smile and a shrug. “I told the kid that, if he didn’t give me my lunch money back, the wheelchair gnome would come out of hiding and beat the shit out of him at midnight. Something about avenging my name or whatever.”

“And the kid believed you?”

“Absolutely… Not. No. I lost my lunch money. It was a sad, sad day.”

“Just like the day I got you as a roommate, you fucking dweeb.” Without really meaning to, Karkat offers a small, playful smirk. Though they quickly correct this by making it their usual frown. “Don’t you have homework?”

“Maybe?” An innocent shrug and, surprisingly enough, a somewhat sincere smile.

( _Abort mission, Vantas. Abort the fucking mission. You’re reaching critical attraction. Nearing some huge-as-hell apocalyptic annihilation of your rationality. Stop now. STOP._ )


	26. "Stop playing Christmas music in September"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Moonlight Serenade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_X8sz_wgrSc)**  
>  Glenn Miller  
> 1939 | Bluebird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how about you stop telling me how to live my life dude   
>  christmas is rad get fuckin hype   
>  no fuck you i will not turn off the music

Over time, Dave has garnered and maintained a fairly sizable mental library of seemingly useless life hacks—things that the standard variety of self-proclaimed “normal” people would never need to know. Nor would such boring people find these ideas useful.

To him, though, they’re invaluable.

While he’s lived in Texas most of his life, his second foster family lived in Maine. ( _Unfortunately, that didn’t come with the lobster meals included._ ) And, from there, he learned a whole lot about managing his body temperature in cold weather.

It all comes down to layers. Layer everything. A long-sleeved shirt. A light, faded red sweater. A black overcoat. ( _You call it The Fashion Killer. It’s a standard trench coat that you stole from Bro some time ago and haphazardly cut to fit your needs. You then hid it in your room long enough for it to end up on your body at this current point in time. And not, perhaps, in the dump where it probably belongs._ )

From his short stint in Maine, Dave also picked up on some tips for winter in general.

As a whole, it’s not as rough as he’d anticipated. Ice isn’t anywhere as awful as he thought it would be. In fact, if anything, it’s little more than handling himself the same way he does when he drives in bad weather. Slow down. Be extra aware of your surroundings. Watch out for people sliding around on their asses because their ambulatory transportation methods have betrayed them. Gliding past the literally butthurt pedestrians in a very smug sort of you-think-you’re-all-that sort of way is completely optional, though Dave will recommend it to anyone who asks for his advice.

( _After all, if you can’t join them, beat them. Do circles around them because your center of gravity is more stable. Or… some sort of mathematical shit like that. It doesn’t matter; you’re just cooler than them because your chances of slipping are pretty low._ )

Such information—diligently accumulated and cultivated over a span of over a decade—proves useful.

The Thursday before the first break of four measly days, it snows for the first time. The temperatures drop enough for ice to form on the roads. And on the sidewalks. And pretty much anywhere that happened to be host to some sitting water.

Classes are cancelled for the day.

Presumably, the cancellations will extend into tomorrow, too.

After all, people who fall on their asses hard enough reserve the right to sue the school for their wanton disregard for ass safety. ( _Truly. Ass safety is an unacknowledged phenomenon. An under-respected facet of daily life._ )

To be honest, though, it doesn’t snow that much. In fact, despite his firm disdain for the frozen water droplets, Dave can’t help but be mildly disappointed. After all…

“How the fuck am I supposed to make a massive fuckin’ ice boner out of this?” he whines, gesturing aggressively to the less than a quarter of an inch of snow. “This is not enough snow to build a snow dick. I am fuckin’ pissed.”

John, who just so happened to agree to accompany him to the dining hall this morning, snickers. He shrugs. “It’s the East Coast. Were you expecting some sort of apocalyptic snowfall?”

“Maybe,” admits Dave. “I love watching you all waddle around like goddamned penguins, by the way. It makes me feel so much cooler.”

“That might just be the weather, Dave.”

( _Fuck._ ) “Dammit, John.”

There’s a short but respectable silence between the two until they emerge into the dining hall, where they’re promptly greeted by a table of familiar faces.

 

* * *

 

“You mind?” Dave flashes a wide, cocky grin in Karkat’s direction as they park beside them.

And, in their usual form, Karkat responds with a low growl. “Yes. I do. Please, by all means, continue hogging the air I’m breathing.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” says Dave, humming absentmindedly.

“You’re an asshole, you know,” Karkat mutters.

“Yes. Thank you. I try my best.” A shrug. A quiet yawn. “You going back home for the break?”

Around the table, there’s a hum of affirmation. And, then, from Karkat, there’s a negative grunt. “I’m not going all the way back to Florida for a few fucking days. That’s a waste of money and time.”

“You live in Florida?” Dave asks, mildly surprised by the fact. “I thought you were from… I don’t know. Like… New Mexico or Nevada or one of those states that’s closer to Texas.” He freezes, realizes his mistake, and hastily adds to his statement, “You seem more like a Central Standard Time dude.”

“Nope. Eastern Standard Time. My entire fucking life has been Eastern Standard Time.”

“Ew. Eastern Standard _and_ you live on America’s sad, flaccid penis peninsula.” Dave shakes his head slowly and bolsters the effect with a serious quiet tuts. “I’m sorry, dude. That fuckin’ sucks.”

“While I completely fucking agree that Florida is where old people go to die and everyone else only barely tolerates us for our pastel puke theme parks, I still object to you calling my state a flaccid penis.” Karkat spears a link of sausage on their fork and inspects it closely. “Now, can we _maybe_ get through dinner without you opening your goddamn perverted mouth and letting your X-rated thoughts spill everywhere like a flood of putrid molasses?”

Dave snickers. He shrugs, sets his own fork down, and folds his hands behind his head. “That’s oddly specific, Kark. Is that a reference to something?”

“Yes,” comes the immediate reply. “It’s a metaphor for how your awful, rancid, insipid bullshit slowly creeps and fills every crevice of this planet. We’re all going to drown in the absolute much which flies from Dave Strider’s open, gaping maw.”

“So this is how the world ends,” Rose adds, her straddling the line between playful and pensive, “Not with a bang, but with the sound of my cousin’s batshit commentary.”

“That’s disappointing,” John laughs. ( _Fuck that guy. Fuck that guy and his toothy, adorable smile._ ) “But does that mean we have to sacrifice Dave to save the world?”

“I volunteer to be the one who throw him in a volcano,” interjects Karkat. Their voice is half serious, half playful. An odd balance for such a vitriolic comment. And, yet, when Dave looks at them, they’re smiling. A small but genuine smile—the type that, in any cliché romance movie, would be backlit by the rising morning sun as it streams in through the nearest window. The type that would make that strange angelic music start playing and force Dave’s heart into absolute limbo and…

( _Goddammit._ )

As if summoned, this exact bizarre scenario occurs as, presumably, the clouds in the sky briefly part. The only thing missing it the romantic music and Dave’s unflinching enthusiasm for the apparently fated relationship.


	27. Why is it called a "break?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[One Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RtDhGuEGgyc)**  
>  The Pillows  
>  ** _Little Busters_** (1998)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no really why   
>  because i dont know   
>  like i tried breaking shit   
>  and they were like no thats not it   
>  well fuck i was just trying to enjoy some break

Monday.

Technically, it’s supposed to be the first of a four-day break. Presumably, it’s so that the campus staff can actually get a fucking break. After all, they’ve been cleaning up college kids’ shit for the past few weeks; and, hell, everyone needs a break.

And that includes Karkat.

Not that they’re actually getting one. According to their parents—and, to a lesser degree, themself—it’s too expensive to fly them out for four measly days. So, instead, they’re stuck in the room with Dave Strider while literally everywhere else on campus is closed. The dining hall isn’t serving food. The café won’t open until Friday. Hell, for all intents and purposes, the entire school has shut down. It’s a veritable ghost town and, while it unnerves them, Dave absolutely loves it.

“This would be the perfect set for a post-apocalyptic movie, dude. A big, abandoned college. What else is creepier?” he points out, keeping the same pace as Karkat. He remains to their left and, from above and to the side, Karkat can see his eyes—reddish-brown and off-center. Admittedly, they find Dave’s eyes attractive through their sheer strangeness. ( _As you think about it, it dawns upon you that “strange but attractive” succinctly summarizes everything about Dave._ )

Still, it’s not as if Karkat is about to let their feelings for Dave be that damned obvious. ( _After all, what’s the fun in that?_ ) They bury their hands in the pockets of their plain grey windbreaker. “What’s scarier than an empty campus? A campus with you, Strider. That’s the most fucking terrifying thing I can think of and… Oh. Well. Shit. I’m living the nightmare. The cyberpunk dystopia is now and it’s all your fault.”

“I’m not opposed to a cyberpunk dystopia,” Dave shrugs. As usual, he doesn’t falter. He keeps the conversation going with ease. “Well, if it’s the sort of rad-as-fuck exoskeleton type of cyberpunk. I’m thinking lightweight robotic skeletons that augment basic human abilities and probably also have jet packs. Because why the fuck not?”

“Because the sky would be filled with idiots like you, fuckwit. Imagine multiple Dave Striders all trying to fly in the same airspace,” as they say this, Karkat shivers. “It’s horrible. That’s a verified recipe for some motherfucking mid-air collisions. Possibly explosions. Countless civilian deaths result from your fucking incompetence. The fall of the nation is the sole responsibility of you and your birdbrained clones.”

“That might be a bit of an exaggeration,” Dave snickers. He stops, pulls open the door to the nearest IHOP, and parks himself in front of it as he wipes his hands off on his pants. “But, if we’re going to talk about the end of the world, you gotta fuckin’ mention snow slush. That shit is the worst.”

Rolling their eyes, Karkat steps inside. They wait until Dave has also made it inside before entering.

The pair are then shown to a standard two-person table. Menus are distributed and, within seconds, Dave makes the least shocking declaration of the goddamned century.

“I’m ordering pancakes.”

Karkat, in return, can’t help but let a snort of laughter slip through their defenses. “We’re in fucking IHOP. International House of butter-fucking Pancakes. And I never would have thought for a single second that you would have the audacity to order something as outrageous as a shitty pancake.”

“You do have a soft side, Kark,” Dave points out, smirking. “But, really, I’m going for pancakes. You want to join or are you going to be the asshole who shows up at IHOP to order sausage and eggs?”

A moment of thought is followed by a short shrug. “I’m going for the latter. Just to piss you off, Strider.”

“Whatever.” Dave says this dismissively, though there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he pulls out his phone. His fingers glide across the screen and, presumably, so do the eyes that are hidden behind walls of mirrored black.

Karkat, too, follows suit. On their phone, they proceed to scroll through their messages. There are some from their parents. Standard “we miss you” and “have a nice day” sort of things. John’s sent a few photos of his goldfish, apparently named Captain America. “Get it?” one message reads, “Get it? Captain because he’s a fish.” ( _Oh. You get it. Unfortunately._ ) Terezi has sent a few mildly coherent texts about the most recent updates in Dragon Hell as well as what they can only assume are some photos accidentally sent via butt-dial. Sollux, with whom they’ve bonded over their distaste ( _albeit, yours is much less extreme than his_ ) for Dave’s whimsical spin on D&D, has provided a fucking encyclopedia of pictures of his beehives at home. This includes a photo of the queen, to whom he’s assigned the name of ( _oddly and generically enough_ ) Susan.

“You gotten anything from Jade lately?”

“What?” Karkat frowns. They look towards Dave. “No? Why? Have you?”

“Oh. Hell yeah.” He laughs and slides his phone across the table. “Check it. Her dog is cute as hell.”

A quick glance at the photos… ( _Holy shit that’s a huge dog._ ) “Jesus fucking Christ. That’s a fucking polar bear.”

“Nah. It’s a dog. He’s named Becquerel.” Dave shrugs, catching his phone as Karkat slides it back, “I’m guessing you’ve seen Captain America?”

“I wish I hadn’t,” comes the dejected reply.

Another laugh. “John’s named all his fish like that. The one before this was Captain Crunch. And, before that, it was fuckin’ Captain Morgan. And Captain Kirk. And—”

“Dear God, Strider, that’s enough.” Despite the obvious aggression, Karkat offers a small smirk. “What the hell is between you and that dork, anyhow? It’s like you’re a fucking married old couple.”

“I wish,” Dave shrugs. “I tried a long-distance relationship with him once. It didn’t go well. And Bro beat the shit out of me when he found out.” A slight frown flashes across his face. He leans a bit to the left for a moment before haphazardly proceeding to stack the Sweet’n Low packets into a card house formation. “It’s a long, boring, drama-filled story. Would probably make a great modern soap opera. All it was missing was straight-up murder.”

“Hm.” Karkat nods. ( _Rose was right. You’re not sure if you’re ready to hear all about Dave’s life._ ) They skirt around the issue—or, more accurately, avoid it altogether—by changing the topic. “Waiter’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously if you have anything you wanna see happen like idek gay boys going to the movies or whatever feel free to comment and reviews/concerns are always welcome [idek i drew some shit have a dave](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/post/144478067337/i-was-going-to-write-gay-things-and-then-somehow)


	28. "YouTube? More like MeTube"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Futurism**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIvUNVOHle4)  
>  Muse  
>  ** _Origin of Symmetry_** (2001)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in retrospect that joke sucked and i retract it im sorry

**DAVE STRIDER, a twenty-year-old man known for always speaking his mind and being upfront about most things that don’t deal with his emotions, is, as usual, in the center of the video. He’s wrapped himself in the same ugly flannel patterned blanket as before and sips absentmindedly at a steaming cup that, if the Sharpie label on the outside is to believed, contains hot chocolate.**

> DAVE  
>  No clue what number video this is and I’ve just decided to stop keeping track. It’s gotten cold out so… Sorry if I look like an old man. I’m trying to not catch the third round of pneumonia of my entire fuckin’ life. And, seeing as the last time ended in the PICU, I’d really rather avoid that. But, beyond that…

**He frowns, lets forth a few small coughs, and downs some more hot chocolate. DAVE allows a few seconds to pass before clearing his throat and speaking again.**

> DAVE  
>  Last video got a whopping seventy views which is, admittedly, a lot more than I thought it would get. I mean… Who wants to watch me slog through my boring daily life, right? But… Yeah. I’m just back to address a few questions from the last video. First one is… “What’s up with the shades?” Well, to make a really long story really fuckin’ short, something between the steaming sauna of shit that is my brain and my eyeballs got fuckin’ fried. And, before that, I’d always had one hell of a time with photophobia. Light is like a massive fuckin’ drill going through my goddamned skull. Back to that first thing: if I actually take these off, a lot of people get freaked out.

**There’s a brief pause. Another cough. After once again clearing his throat, DAVE continues.**

> DAVE  
>  It’s not like my vision is shot to hell. I’ve got pretty okay vision. It’s just blurry and probably looks like I’ve been carefully maintaining a wicked cataracts for a while. The problem is that most of my central vision is gone and I’ve got this big space that’s off-center. So, I tend to not look at people when they’re talking and then I get fuckin’ harassed for being rude. And I’m always on the receiving end like, “Woah. Shit. Calm down. Maybe _you’d_ like to try talking to someone who’s in your huge-ass blind spot?”

**Though he knows it’s useless, he rolls his eyes. Folding his arms across his chest, DAVE eyes the plain text document with his agenda for this particular video.**

> DAVE  
>  Secondly… “What type of music do you like?” Well, first of all, thank you all for a break from the usual health questions. Like, sure, I’m all for educating people. But I’d rather not talk about that fuckin’ fiasco all the time. But… Yeah. Music. I like a little bit of everything. I like stuff with a lot of bass. Good rhythm and some solid beats. I’ll eat that shit up like motherfuckin’ chocolate pudding. I like remixes and progressive shit. Y’know…? New and innovative things. Because, really, who wants to listen to the same shit over and over again? I mean… In my opinion, there’s not much of a point to doing something if you’re just shitting out the same stuff your grandparents did. You have to make it new. Something that will make all the stuffy old people pop rage boners because it’s goddamned outrageous and unheard of.

**DAVE lifts himself from his seat for a few seconds before dropping back into place. The heels of his palms seem to instinctively press against his knees and a look of mild discomfort flashes across his face. However, it disappears as quickly as it materialized and leaves no trace of its existence.**

> DAVE  
>  Third and final question. Or, I guess, more of a statement. Someone noticed my dog tags…

**Here, DAVE pauses. He tugs at a chain around his neck—one that has intertwined itself with the golden chain of his cross—until a pair of standard-issue dog tags are revealed. The back is solid black broken only by a bold red star of life. As he speaks, he idly fiddles with the tag.**

> DAVE  
>  Or, I guess, tag. The other one’s just something I bought myself as a gag. It just says to return me to the nearest club if you find me and I seem lost. But the main one is a medical alert thing. See, I’m pretty fuckin’ tight with the EMS people. At least, I was in Houston. Not so much here. Probably will be by the end of the year for some reason, though. Basically, it’s just a list of boring shit. So, like… Last name, first name. SCI/HSP. After that it’s just some shit for people to know in case I’m fuckin’ out of it. Third line covers the fact that I’m on a pretty nice cocktail of prescribed drugs and oral baclofen. After that is a quick note that there’s no one the medical people need to contact. After all, I handle myself. If that makes sense. And… That’s about it for today so… Keep an eye out for new videos and shit. I’m currently negotiating a contract with Karkat. Because, yes, I totally agree with the people who’re saying that we’re a pretty good duo personality-wise. But, until then, this is Dave Strider checking out.


	29. "STRIDER IS GONE. I AM THE MASTER, NOW."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Envy Revealed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R7ezKLiN7jw)**  
>  Akira Senju  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_** (2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES. HELLO. IT'S TIME FOR THIS STORY TO COME UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. AND, AS MUCH AS I'D LIKE TO SAY THAT I WRESTLED IT FROM STRIDER'S RELUCTANT GRIP, HE ACTUALLY LET ME TAKE CONTROL OF THE STORY VOLUNTARILY. SO, APPARENTLY, HE CAN SOMETIMES BE NOT-AS-BIG-OF-A-FUCKING-DOUCHE-AS-HE-COULD-HAVE-BEEN.
> 
>  
> 
> **Switching things up because why the fuck not. Welcome to second person hell. And, obviously, Karkat's point of view. I'm doing this to force the story more towards the overarching idea of Dave's background and also because _why the fuck not_. Yes. The music being chosen for this part should be considered Karkat's picks.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You’re nineteen years old, turning twenty on June 12th of next year. For the past… What? Holy shit. How long has it been? _How long has it fucking been?_ Weeks. An untold amount of weeks. For the last umpteen weeks, you’ve been living with a certain man by the name of Dave Strider. He is, from what you’ve gathered, a generally cocky and somewhat arrogant individual with a propensity for metaphors even more obtuse than your own and whose ego is far larger than any singular human being’s should ever legally be.

Nonetheless, you’ve found some things to like about him.

He’s cute. He’s unbelievably and disgustingly cute and you hate it; but, at the same time, you love it. You love that cocky half-smile of his and the way he takes whatever comes to him with a grain of salt ( _or so it seems_ ). You admire his confidence—something you don’t have nearly as much of—and, while you hate to admit it, his sense of humor is pretty damned funny. Not that you’d ever admit it to him.

Damn.

Fuck.

Every other profanity you can think of.

You weren’t supposed to fall for your roommate. You weren’t supposed to like the jackass whose introduction was little more than a probably drunken and typo-filled text explaining that he’d be moving in the day before you. The fucking twit whose profile image had been little more than a grainy photo of some blond, shades-wearing douchebag…

_Fuck._

( _Wait. Stop. Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s it, Vantas._ )

Right now, it’s noon. Tomorrow will be Friday, the day that people will start to return to campus. Technically, it’s the fifth day of break. However, since most kids have to return, it’s not necessarily included in the total.

“Hey. Kark.”

( _Okay. So the nickname isn’t all that bad. Better than Weinerbutt or Shouting Asshole…_ ) “What is it, Strider?” As you speak, you peer over the edge of the bed and allow your gaze to settle on a somewhat nervous-looking Dave.

He occupies his bed and, as usual, he rests his back against the wall. With only one earbud in, he can obviously hear you; but, at the same time, his fingers tap out an energetic beat. His shades are pointed away from you and, presumably, so are his eyes. “I… um…” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You’re… a pretty cool dude and…” A deep breath in and, on the exhale, it all spills out at once. “Would you maybe like to go on a date with me or… something?” A sigh of relief ends the statement and, as this point, his cheeks light up a brilliant red.

And you, to be honest, are taken aback. ( _But, at the same time… FUCKING FINALLY. Damn. Strider really is fucking clueless._ ) You decide to see if you can get some more information out of him, though. After all, if you remember correctly, a few people have noted his homophobic upbringing. “What’s with the sudden change?”

“What change?” Dave laughs nervously. “I’m not sure what you’re fuckin’ talking about, dude…”

“Well, you’ve said some pretty gross stuff before and,” you shrug, “I don’t know. It just seemed to me like your brother would have raised you differently.”

This time, there’s no nervous laugh. There’s merely an anxious hum. “Yeah… Well… He’s in jail in Houston right now, so… Look, dude, just give me the straight answer.”

“I can’t,” you respond coolly, “This is a pretty gay question.”

Dave, in reply, offers a small but genuine smile. ( _Well. At least he’s calmed down some._ ) He shoves his shades up, allowing you a glimpse of his oddly-colored eyes that’s only long enough to see them rolling in a fuck-you-and-fuck-that-joke sort of way. “Ha. Ha. Very funny, Shouty McFucknubs. But—?”

“Yes,” you interject.

For perhaps the first time since you’ve met him, Dave falters without dropping his mask of cool. “Wait… What?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll date you, jackass. What is this? A trial run?” as you say this, you roll back into a more proper position. “Why’re you so damned shocked?”

“I don’t know,” admits Dave. “I just didn’t expect that to go over so well. Well. Fuck. Um… You doing anything tonight?”

“Yeah. I’m going to have tea with Satan. Got myself a fancy fucking invitation complete with the eternal hellfire and everything. Because Satan and I are just the best of buddies, you know, Strider.” You can’t help but snicker at the outrageousness of your own statement.

And Dave, judging by his dismissive huff, notices that snicker. “Then… Care to join me at Olive Garden?”

( _Shit._ )

Before you can so much as think to stop it, a snort of laughter escapes you. “Fucking _Olive Garden_? That’s your idea of a date?” you manage to say through your laughter.

“Dank ass breadsticks and dank ass memes, Vantas. All for the price of your dignity.”

Here, you sneak a quick glance at him. There’s another of his oddly charming if not completely outrageous smirks spread across his face. His brows are quirked in a manner evocative of the suave cartoon romantic interest. ( _Well, if life was a cartoon, that’s what he’d be…_ ) But you can’t let him get to you. You can’t let him know that you’re actually pretty fucking pleased with yourself.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, you’re not sure why you thought Dave could ever handle himself in a passably normal way in pubic. You’re also not sure why you never pegged him as absolute meme trash, because he is. Right now, he’s filling a small paper bag with breadsticks.

“That meme is dead as hell,” you point out.

“The deliciousness of breadsticks never fuckin’ dies, though,” protests Dave as he rolls up the top of the bag and shoves it into the small pack strung between the handles of his chair.

You snicker, though you don’t have much else to say.

So, a silent smog encompasses you and Dave. It’s like a bubble. Every other table seems to be chatting happily; but, you can’t seem to find anything to talk about. And, amazingly, neither can the great, and self-proclaimed infallible Dave Strider. ( _If he’s infallible, then everyone is doomed to burn in hell._ )

A look of awkward tension is on his face. The edges of his lips are tugged into a small frown and his fingers tap absentmindedly against his glass of soda. His shades are angled towards the table.

“What did you get?”

“Hm?”

You repeat yourself. At this point, dispelling the silence is your main goal. If he takes the bait, that’s a bonus. “What’d you get for dinner? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Filet mignon,” Dave shrugs. “You?”

“Grilled chicken salad.”

He nods slowly and lets forth a long, pensive sigh. “So… Um… How would you feel ‘bout joining me on the channel? There’re a metric fuckin’ shit-ton of people asking for you to come back. They’re saying your personality is a nice foil to mine.”

You frown. ( _As much as you’d love to be associated with Dave “Pretty Damned Attractive” Strider…_ ) “I’m not really all that big into videos of myself.”

“Neither am I,” admits Dave, appending an awkward laugh to his statement. With his elbow against the table for leverage, he leans forwards—towards you. “C’mon. We can be the Strider-Vantas team.”

“And you come first because…?” you inquire, brow raised.

“Because it’s my channel. You can make your own. But, until you do, it’s my fuckin’ show,” he says. It’s an extremely self-centered comment whose arrogance is offset by an obvious air of insincerity. “So, you in?”

After taking a few minutes to ponder the idea, you decide that there’s nothing to lose. It’s not as if he’s going to make you sign a contract with your blood to continue his satanic gambit for eternal youth. “Sure. If we’re dating, I might as well help you with your shitty project, Strider.”

When you hit the word “dating,” there’s a brief moment of hesitation from Dave. He stifles it quickly, though, and returns with a wide grin. “Welcome to the business, then, Kark. That’s one thing done. Now I just need to find a better nickname for you.”

“Oh. Fuck. Please don’t.”

( _Kark is bad enough. The minute he knows about that name, Kankri will never let you live it down. In fifty years, when you’ll theoretically have gotten fed up with Dave’s antics and broken up, Kankri will keep calling you Kark. Your parents will call you Kark. Your long-dead grandfather will come back to life purely to return to his former parish and declare that his grandchild is nicknamed Kark. You DO NOT need another nickname. Especially one from Dave._ )

 

* * *

 

**KARKAT VANTAS, a young adult who has never been afraid to express their opinion, sits on the left side of the video. To their right is DAVE STRIDER, a blond who, aside from hosting the channel, just so happens to secretly enjoy stacking stones. A distinct line is drawn between the two. Whereas DAVE is more charismatic and energetic, KARKAT is more reluctant and resigned. When the speaking starts, the difference becomes clearer. There’s DAVE’s mild, Texan-accented voice and, against it, is KARKAT’s harsher, louder tone.**

> DAVE  
>  As per popular request, I’m pleased to introduce to you the newest addition to the Strider channel, Karkat Vantas. Also known as my roommate. Or Shouty McFucknubs. Or Kark. If you have any name suggestions for them, please, drop me a line. I need some new ammunition.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  That’s wonderful, Dave. Can I fucking leave?
> 
> DAVE  
>  Nope.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Fuck.
> 
> DAVE  
>  I’ve gotten a few—and by a few I mean, like, two—questions about video games. Whether I play them or not and stuff like—
> 
> KARKAT  
>  You frequently steal my 3DS to play my game of fucking Animal Crossing, Strider.

**Here, DAVE offers an innocent shrug.**

> DAVE  
>  Okay, yeah, but I don’t really play video games outside of that. I mean… I’m not sure. I don’t think I’d be a good gamer on YouTube. I’m shooting more for humor and vlogging and being hilarious as hell.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  You’re annoying as hell. So you’ve got one thing going for you, Strider. Congrats.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Ignoring the rude commentary, that’s about it for now. Not much to say. If you have suggestions for future videos or whatever, I guess you can comment. This is Dave Strider signing off.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  And this is Karkat Vantas praising the Lord that I can fucking leave. This was a whopping five minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.


	30. JUST SAY "NO." TO EVERYTHING.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Hilly Town](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zFogJuKdDU)**  
>  Yuji Nomi  
>  ** _Whisper of the Heart_** (1995) | Ghibli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST SAY "NO," KIDS. SAY "NO" TO LITERALLY EVERYTHING THAT SPEWS FROM THE GAPING, ABYSMAL MAW OF BAD IDEAS THAT IS DAVE STRIDER.

You find yourself at the dinner table, surrounded by the usual group.

John sits directly across from you. To his left is Rose; to his right is Jade. Going clockwise from Rose, it’s Kanaya, Dave, you, Jade, Feferi, and Kanaya. (And, of course, John.) All spread out around a fairly large round table. Through the window, you can see snow falling. It’s not significant. In fact, it’s little more than tiny, windblown flakes. And, yet, this means that the temperature should fall enough for it to hit below freezing. In this vein of thought, you comment, “So. Who thinks we’ll have class tomorrow.”

There’s a chorus of negative reactions. John merely shrugs. Beside you, Dave lets a snort of laughter escape him. “How about this: I’m willing to say I’ll be running around doing advanced gymnastics before they open school tomorrow.”

Rose, in return, sandwiches a not-so-surreptitious comment between a pair of conspicuous coughs. “Cocky asshole.” Not that she’s trying to hide the comment. Rather, she seems to be trying to maintain a semblance of civility. However, it’s hard to maintain any sort of decency when you’re at the same table as an egotistic blond who just so happens to have eaten nearly a full, standard-sized burger in a span of a minute.

“Whatever.” Dave brushes the criticism off with his usual apathetic grace. He rubs his right shoulder—something you notice that he seems to be doing more frequently as of late—and sighs. “First big party on campus is tonight, by the way.”

“Lovely. Have fun without me,” you interject.

Dave returns with an oddly sincere pout. “C’mon, dude. I have to show you off.”

“What am I? Your trophy date?” you quip.

In his normal fashion, Dave shoots back just as quickly. “Actually, you’re my second date.” He winks. “It’s at the frat house at the end of frat row.”

“Rose and I are planning on going, actually,” Kanaya points out. “We won’t be drinking, but there will be plenty of people to socialize with. You should try it, Karkat.”

“How about I don’t and then I graduate without catching some sort of fucked up young adult infection? Something like the batshit stupid virus or… How about beer breath syndrome?”

“Do you actually like beer?” Dave’s brow rises high enough to be visible above the top of his shades. In the perfect Gendo Ikari imitation, he folds his hands in front of his mouth as he continues, “Because, if you don’t, you probably won’t get bad breath.”

You roll your eyes. ( _Parties are bullshit. What’s the point? Get drunk, black out, and forget everything from the past twenty-four hours._ ) It’s a waste of time. And, yet… “When is it?”

“Tomorrow. 11-5. Free booze and everything. Or… So I’ve heard,” says Dave, his voice dripping with obviously fake innocence. “Hosted by Vriska, that weird kid with the Buck Barnes arm who John’s popping a boner over at this very minute.”

“I am _not_ ,” John snaps, frowning, “She’s pretty and funny. And you’re not one to talk, Dave. You’re dating the so-called Shouty McFucknubs.”

“And you’re dating Captain Spider Bitch,” Dave shrugs, “Can’t say much more than that. Not to mention she keeps a pet tarantula in her room.”

“Its name is Aranea and it’s very sweet, actually,” John pouts.

Dave allows himself a snort of laughter. His shades turn in your direction and, as you can see your reflection in them, you assume he’s looking at you. “So, you want to join? Because it _is_ the de facto Halloween bash. The best bash to go and get smashed.”

( _Jesus. That rhyme. Fuck._ )

“As long as you don’t expect me to go, I might as well tag along and make sure you don’t get yourself into too much shit, Strider.” A long, reluctant sigh builds you up to the conclusion where you respond with a short “fine.”

“Party hard, dude.” Dave winks as he says this. He also punches you on the shoulder.

You can only assume it was a supposed-to-be-light-and-playful punch. Instead, it hurts like hell. You swallow the shock, though. “I’m only coming to chaperone you, you immature asshole.”

“Close enough.” There’s a hint of laughter in Dave’s voice—a sort of carefree casualness that you’ve never seen before. His voice is even softer than usual. It’s gentler. Less abrasive and more genuine. A solid mid-pitched tone with a defined Texan accent mixed with an odd, occasional cough. “So, you have a costume?”

“Nope. Do I need one?”

“Duh,” John exclaims.

Dave isn’t too far behind with his agreement. “It’s a Halloween Party, Kark. Of course you have to have a costume. Fortunately for you, I’m already going a greaser. You’re welcome to join me.”

“In being a greaser?” you respond with a frown. Though, admittedly, it’s not as if you have any better ideas Halloween has never been your thing, after all… “Fine. You have an extra jacket or something?”

“Totally.” A look of unprecedented pleasure crosses Dave’s face. He folds his hands behind his head, wincing slightly as his right lets forth a sharp pop. “We’ll be retro greaser boyfriends. Just like _The Outsiders_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously if you've got ideas lemme know because i'm running out


	31. "PARTIES SUCK."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I MEAN... I GUESS BEER IS KIND OF OKAY. BUT IT'S GENERALLY GROSS. NO. YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD? WINE. WINE IS GOOD. WHY CAN'T FRAT PARTIES JUST SERVE SOME FUCKING WINE? IS THAT SO FUCKING DIFFICULT? IS IT PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR THEM TO SELL WINE WITHOUT THE ENTIRE WEED-SCENTED ABOMINATION OF A STRUCTURE COLLAPSING UPON ITSELF AND BURNING IN THE FLAMES OF THE FUCKING RAGING ERECTION OF TOXIC MASCULINITY THAT RISES FROM THE RUBBLE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Fine on the Outside](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4ASDIs6JD8)**  
>  Priscilla Ahn  
>  ** _Fine on the Outside_** (2014)

If you can say anything about Dave’s wardrobe, it’s that he’s tailored it to work for him. The jacket he offered you didn’t work. In fact, on you, its odd hand-cut modification is obvious. You're not too sure how to explain it; it feels as if it's longer in the front or back. Whatever t is, it's slight but noticeable. Presumably so it will fall better on his frame. And, admittedly, it does. He looks pretty fucking nice in the jacket. You, however, do not. So, you end up getting dragged down to the costume store, where Dave handpicked a cheap costume for you to wear. Though it came with a wig, you didn’t see much point in using it; after all, your hair is already black. And it’s not all that hard to borrow some of Dave’s hair gel to slick it back.

Sure, it took until nearly eleven o’-fucking-clock to get back to the dorm; but, you’ve done it. You survived Dave’s outrageous insistence upon you being a greaser.

Now, though, you’re starting to regret it.

Dave has gone off… somewhere. Presumably, he’s drunk as hell. Or, maybe, he’s doing what you’re doing. Probably not, though. Because you’re currently pressed against a wall doing your damndest to dissociate yourself from the drunken and drug-addled revelers around you. Sure, it was funny at first. Those two frat bros who had a casual conversation that ended with one being dunked headfirst into a garbage can was entertaining. The guy dressed as Captain Hook who had hot glued a cup holder to the hook was pretty neat.

Now, though, it’s getting too loud. There are too many people.

“Looks like we found ourselves a f—g, boys.”

Your gaze drifts up, landing on a face that looks remarkably like Eridan’s, albeit a few years older. He towers above you, standing at roughly Dave’s full height of six feet. As this realization dawns upon you, the sound of cracking knuckles overrides the din of the crowd. ( _Not like this is the first time this has happened._ )

“Where’s your boyfriend? He dump you to find someone even more pathetic?”

( _Does booze count as something? Or someone?_ )

“No comment?”

A bony knee slams into your gut. Experience, however, has taught you how to hold yourself. Sure, it hurts like hell; but, you’ve learned to discard the natural reaction. Rather than double over, you bury your hands in your pockets and prepare yourself for a probable ass-beating. ( _Maybe… Dave isn’t so different from you…_ )

“Hey, kid, you know who you’re talking to?” demands the man. “I’m Cronus motherfucking Ampora.” A hand reaches out and grabs you by the shirt.

You’re lifted into the air and your back is slammed against the wall. By now, the crowd around you has created a bit of distance between themselves and the fight; but, they’re not interfering. And you don’t blame them. You wouldn’t interfere if you were in their position, either. Hell, who in their right mind would do that? Take on this six-foot-tall tower of raging, toxic masculinity?

( _Shit. You spoke too soon._ )

“Is that supposed to mean something to anyone?” the voice is undoubtedly that of Dave Strider’s cockier side—it’s brash, arrogant, and infused with pride. At the same time, though, his words are slurred. He is, at best, tipsy; the worst case scenario is that he’s drunk as fuck.

Still, the interruption prompts Cronus to drop you. And, instinctively, you scramble away. You try to blend in amongst the crowd of too-drunken-to-care party guests and watch as Dave effortlessly takes down a man technically twice his size.

He charges forward and uses his momentum to throw Cronus off balance. Push forward, fall back.

Not that this lasts very long.

Cronus is on his feet again in seconds and, now, he seems more than willing to beat the shit out of his attacker. Turning on his heel, however, he does something unexpected. It seems you didn't hide yourself too well. He walks towards you, cracks his knuckles once again and…

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Karkat. C’mon, dude, it wasn’t that bad of a beating. Stay with me, bud. Karkat. Don’t go dying from an ass-kicking as shitty as that one w—oh. Ow.”

( _Dave. That’s most definitely Dave. Who the fuck else could it be? He has a nice voice, actually. Now that you’re really thinking about it, he has a nice voice. It’s so soft. So surprisingly gentle._ )

“If you die, I fucked my arm over for nothing, dude. Wake up.” There’s a hiss of discomfort. A hand reaches out and gently shakes you by the shoulder. “Oh. Hey. Is that life? Have we made contact? Houston to Karkat. Do you read?”

( _What the hell just happened? And why do you have the worst headache of your entire life?_ )

Surprisingly warm hands gently pull you up from the ground. Presumably, this is Dave. He rests your back against something that, after a bit of thought, you groggily register to be his legs. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes. Don’t make me call the ambulance, because we will be so busted. So… Oh. Shit. I really fucked over my arm, didn’t I?”

“Who the fuck are you talking to, Strider?” you manage to grumble.

And, as he responds, the relief in Dave’s voice is obvious. “Oh. Cool. You’re not dead. I thought you might have checked out of this plane of reality. Which would’ve been disappointing. Pretty embarrassing, too. That was a shit move from Cronus. And then I guess he figured getting seen beating two people up at once—one of whom a lot of people assume can’t fight back—isn’t all that great for not getting expelled, because he ran. I have to hand it to him, though. He's fast.”

You turn to look at him and, as you do, you notice the nervous smile on his face. It’s small and subtle, nothing like his usual smirk. “Weren’t we… Wasn’t this a party or something?”

“Yeah. But Sollux is buds with a bunch of a guys who live here, so they just moved it outside. No one nearby was sober enough to call the police or campus security or… whatever. Conveniently.” There’s a nervous laugh that fills the momentary pause as Dave thinks of what to say next. “You feeling okay?”

“Fucking huge headache,” you say honestly.

Dave returns with a laugh. “Duh. He knocked you the fuck out.”

Again, you look up. The nervous smile is still there, though it’s fading. His left hand grips his right shoulder.

“You okay, Strider?”

“Fine,” he lies. It’s pretty obvious. While you’re sure he would say otherwise if asked, Dave isn’t exactly the best liar. Sure, he can lie about some things; but, he’s not that great at lying about pain. “My shoulders usually hurt. It’s not like people were built to lift themselves everywhere.”

You don’t comment.

“You okay to get up?”

Slowly, you nod. You stumble to your feet and turn to face Dave. As you open your mouth to speak, however, he interrupts.

He waves his left hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to the room. John’s coming around to take me to get my shoulder checked. No fuckin’ problem.”

“If you’re getting it checked—” you protest.

His interjection silences you. “It’s nothing. Go back to the dorm.”

Again, you nod. You bury your hands in your pockets and obey the command with a fair amount of reluctance.

 

* * *

 

Dave doesn’t show up. At all. Instead, you get a steady stream of haphazard texts reassuring you that everything is fine. There’s also a text telling you that anything that John says to you “is probably bullshit,” which is the most fucking suspicious thing you’ve ever heard. They stop coming in around 3:00.

And the situation only gets more concerning when John finally gets back.

He knocks on your door around four in the fucking morning and, when you open it, the first thing you notice is that Dave is nowhere nearby. You move to ask him what the hell is happening, but he beats you to it.

“They took him in for surgery an hour ago.” He yawns. He stretches his arms above his head and blinks before meeting your gaze with his characteristically bright blue but currently bleary eyes. “Shoulder injury or something. If you want to see him, I’ve called Kanaya and Rose. Well… I called Rose. She’s driving a group up to the hospital. I’ve done my civic duty for our friendship, though. It’s four in the morning and I’m going to bed.”

“Makes enough sense,” you mutter. Like John, you’re also sleepy as hell. But, at the same time, this recent development is like a slap in the face. Except it doesn’t hurt. It’s just confusing. It knocks your thoughts into a state of jumbled chaos. “Where’re we meeting?”

“Rose said to meet out at the fountain.” Again, John yawns. He pulls from his pocket a tiny, cheap-looking keychain in the shape of a crow and shoves it into your hand. In your hand, it feels even cheaper than it looks. It's made of hollow, thin plastic and the paint is applied with the utmost disregard for detail. “Give that to him. Tell him I would’ve stuck around if I didn’t have homework due and a test tomorrow.” He waves, turns, and disappears down the hallway before you can say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obvious disclaimer: don't punch people in college you will get charged with assault and i'm reaalllly stretching this and let's assume that skaia is in the most bumfuck nowhere town in america and that's why this shit happens great cool awesome we have that solved


	32. "ROUND ONE. FIGHT."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Adagio in G minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eLU5W1vc8Y)**  
>  Albinoni / Remo Giazotto  
> 1958

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAVE STRIDER'S FIST VERSUS A RICH, CORRUPT, AND PROBABLY INEPT SURGEON. WHO WILL WIN!? PROBABLY DAVE. HE'S GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS. SOMEONE GET THE FUCKING CAMERA. THIS IS GOING TO GET GOOD. HOT SHIT. DO IT FOR THE VINE, STRIDER. STRANGLE THAT FUCKWAD OF A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL. HELL FUCKING YEAH. OR MAYBE NOT. BUT IT SOUNDED INTERESTING, RIGHT?

Despite arriving at the hospital at five in the goddamned morning and waiting for six hours, you’re not allowed to see Dave. Apparently, they’re only letting relatives see him. Rose later expresses suspicions that this may be because the surgery was unnecessary.

Dave, however, maintains that he consented willingly and that he would rather take the consequences sooner as opposed to later.

Even so, the implications are troublesome.

The biggest problem is the fact that Dave is stuck without a place to go to recover. It’s not as if he can continue taking classes; but, he’s got nowhere to go beyond the dorm. Aside from that, he’s been banned from using his right arm for any sort of useful daily activities beyond typing and eating for a solid six weeks.

Rose reports the plans as announced by the hospital. Dave is slotted to be sent to a nursing home unless someone decides to offer to work with him.

And, being the sucker you are ( _and his significant other… and his friend… dammit…_ ), you volunteer. With some effort, you and him manage to convince the school to let him stay on campus for the duration of this time.

It’s not immediate, of course. No, thanks to inpatient recovery, you’re given six days to prepare yourself.

Not surprisingly, Dave spends the six days getting acquainted with the staff. Being who he is, he ends up with a handful of new medical buddies. An effort by the nurses on his floor ends up paying for the equipment he’ll be sent back with.

Of course, it draws suspicion from the other students on your hallway. A massive device that looks like the rough equivalent of a crude human catapult isn’t exactly something anyone would expect to see in a college dorm, after all.

Surprisingly, the six days pass quickly. He returns to campus as quietly as he possibly can and, despite the insistence of medical staff, refuses to withdraw from any classes.

Still, rumors spread.

It’s not like it’s easy to hide the fact that he’s been—at least in his opinion—demoted to a power chair.

Cronus, meanwhile, seems to do the best for everyone and fuck off. At the very least, you haven’t seen him around or heard about him lately. So, clearly, this is a good sign. Not that you believe he’ll leave you or Dave alone that easily; but, at least he’s backed off for now.


	33. "I DIDN'T CHECK THE JOB DESCRIPTION."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Hikoukigumo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a55ImVl9xFU)**  
>  Yumi Matsutoya | 松任谷 由実  
> 1973

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU KNOW THAT FEELING WHEN YOU GET IN WAY TOO DEEP? YOU KNOW THAT FUCKING FEELING? THAT'S ME RIGHT NOW. I AM DROWNING IN MY OWN GENEROSITY. SOMEONE HELP. I'M GOING TO DIE. FUCK. FUCKING FUCK. DON'T LET DAVE WRITE MY EPITAPH.

“Do you have any idea how this thing works or…?”

Both you and Dave stare at the strange and, upon closer examination, useless catapult device. At this point, between the two of you, there’s only one thing that is certain. And that’s the fact that you’re supposed to be using it to get him out of bed. As for how to use it, however, you’re both pretty damned stumped.

“I’m not too fuckin’ sure, honestly.” He smiles sheepishly.

“Can’t I just pick you up or something? You’re not that fucking heavy, after all, Strider.”

“Theoretically, yes. From what the doctors told me, no. That’ll probably fuck up my shoulder. Which isn’t so different from how it is now but… I’d rather not get unnecessarily babied for longer than I need to.” Frowning, he gestures towards the blue fabric which hangs by a chain from the rig. “If I remember correctly, you get that thing under my ass and the flaps go under the legs. I’m guessing you tie it up like a hobo pack.”

“What?”

Dave sighs. While he doesn’t say anything or change his expression, you’re getting the feeling that he’s growing impatient. You also start to suspect that you’ve taken far more than you can carry. After all, he’s always given off a distinctive sort of ‘Help is neither wanted nor needed’ vibe. If anything, you’re sure that, buried under his usual shell of apathy, he’s pretty damned annoyed with the situation.

And, when he speaks, his voice reflects that. There’s a growl to it—the sort of undertone that a voice carries when someone tries and fails to stifle their anger. “I’ll help. Just fuckin’ do something, Vantas. I’d like to have something more to do than I’m doing right now. And, right now, I’m just staring at the fuckin’ ceiling and wondering if ripping off my arm would hurt less than it does now.”

You nod. ( _Okay. So. When Dave Strider gets pissed off, it’s time for everyone to evacuate the room. This is some useful information._ ) Hesitantly, you fiddle with the rig until the blue fabric hangs above him.

He reacts by roughly grabbing the fabric with his free hand. He pulls on it with enough force to override the mechanical lowering mechanism. ( _At least you know where it is, now, since it’s bobbing up and down in protest._ ) He roughly situates it beneath his upper body before expectantly turning his head so that his shades are facing you.

In his shades, you see your own reflection, and you’re pretty damned sure that you are the textbook definition of uncertainty. Still, you override it long enough to position the sling.

“I lied,” he points out, his voice a bit calmer than before. “Sorry. Cross the shit at the end of the legs and tie it on the loop.”

Another nod.

Somehow, you manage to follow instructions without fucking anything up. After positioning him above the chair, you use the lever to lower him. You untie the knot and unhook the chain, allowing the fabric to drop behind him.

He responds with a huff of annoyance.

“Hm?”

By now, Dave is looking away from you. His cheeks have turned a bright pink. “Go get John.”

“What?”

“Unless you want to deal with helping me in the bathroom, I advise that you call John.”

Now, it’s time for you to blush. It’s more embarrassment than anything. You muster up the composure to nod and shoot John a text, to which he replies within seconds. “He’s coming over now”

 

* * *

 

John takes about an hour to do his job.

From what you understand, John and Dave have met in person before. Apparently, the first foster family Dave was with had let John fly out to see him one summer. And, during that time, they’d gotten to know each other in only vaguely defined ways. Whenever you ask about the three month period, however, both John and Dave will awkwardly dance around it or completely ignore the comment.

Whatever the case is, it’s clear to you that they’re pretty comfortable around one another. ( _Not that it’s taken you this long to notice. Dave’s comfort level around John is pretty obvious._ ) For a span of an hour and through the bathroom door, you hear a more typical side of Dave’s personality. Smartass comments are exchanged, disgusting jokes shared, and casual discussion reciprocated.

You find yourself wondering whether or not you and Dave will ever reach that point. Half of you wants to—to get to know Dave as something more than the cocky exterior he presents to the public. Another half of you doubts that you will. If there’s one thing that you can say about Dave Strider, it’s that he’s a tough egg to crack. Damned near impossible to crack…

 

* * *

 

By the time John leaves, Dave seems to be in a better mood. Though an air of dissatisfaction still hangs about him, he’s more upbeat than before. Aside from that, he’s changed out of his sleepwear. In fact, the plain red pajama pants still hang from the back of his chair when he emerges from the bathroom.

He invites you to accompany him to the local coffeehouse, and you accept.

Which leads to where you are now, awkwardly rubbing Dave’s back as he finishes a round of hoarse coughs.

“Don’t get sick, dude. Neither of us can afford that.”

“Pretty sure you could,” Dave wheezes after a few moments of silence. “You don’t have to do that, by the way. It’s not like burping a baby.” Frowning, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“So, then, are you suggesting I just slap you on the back?” you inquire, smirking.

“Possibly.” Dave, too, offers a small smile. He grabs onto your shoulder and pulls himself back into an upright position. “Sorry for this morning, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Being a fuckin’ asshole,” Dave answers honestly. “It’s just frustrating as fuckin' hell, y’know? I’ve always done everything by myself and for myself so…” Without seeming to notice what he’s doing, he allows his right hand to tug absentmindedly at the inner fabric of the sling. It’s obvious that he needs something to keep him physically engaged in the world. “I mean… Technically, I’m supposed to be at the peak of my health and I’m stuck asking for help to get into the goddamned shower. It’s weird. And not good weird. Weird like sucky weird.”

You nod. “Makes sense.” You poke at the waffles on your plate. “What happened, anyhow?”

“Rotator cuff problems. Pushing yourself around and throwing your body weight like a potato sack isn’t exactly what human arms are built for.” A lopsided shrug punctuates the statement. “I went to follow Cronus and I guess I turned funny. Because it just fuckin’ snapped. Like. 'Goodbye, mild ache. Hello, sharp, stabbing pain. It’s been, what? Five days? You can’t leave me alone?' Y’know. Like that.”

“You have conversations with insentient entities?”

“Like you don’t,” Dave quips. “Look, I spent most of my life with only Bro and his shitty anime movies to talk to. And talking to yourself is generally more productive than talking to Shinji motherfuckin’ Ikari.”

( _Anime. John likes anime, apparently. And one of your older friends did, too. There was this one trope, though… What was it…? Oh. Wait. You’ve got it._ )

“So, then, if life is an anime,” you say, “Does that make you the tsundere love interest?”

“Doesn't that make you the asshole love interest?” Dave smirks. And, much to your disappointment, he doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “Talk shit, get hit, Kark.”

“Fuck you, Strider.”

“Doctors advised against any sexual intercourse for the next however many weeks.” A large, shitty grin spreads across his face.

And, despite the fact that you promised yourself that you wouldn’t get involved in romantic drama, you find yourself sinking deeper.

Why is this asshole so damned charming?

No one who’s this big of an asshole should be this charming.

And, yet, here he is—Dave goddamned Strider.

 

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER, a twenty-year-old with a vivacious outward personality, is situated to the right of the center of the frame. To his left is KARKAT, his roommate and nineteen-year-old significant other. By the fact that no sunlight streams through the visible window, it can be assumed that this video takes place during the night. Or, at the very least, it’s being recorded after the sun has set.**

> KARKAT  
>  Strider wanted me to help him upload an apology video. He was being a heroic asshole and he fucked over his shoulder. Because that’s just what he does. He flips the fuck out and then ends up getting shoulder surgery. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Shut up, Kark.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Fine.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Amazing. It worked. So, here’s the deal. Karkat’s my lovely live-in helper while I recover. Because, obviously, my right arm’s on temporary standby. Six weeks… Or… No. Shit. Five weeks. Holy fuck. Five weeks before I can start using it for legitimately useful things again. So, until then, I get to use this power chair.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Power chair was donated by the lovely nurses at Skaia Regional Hospital who were all somehow duped into believing that Dave is an innocent, charming guy. He’s not. He’s an asshole. If any of those nurses are watching: It’s not too late to retract your offer.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Maybe don’t do that. But, yeah…

**Here, DAVE pauses. He messes with the controls, tilting the chair back a few degrees before returning to the proper position. KARKAT remains silent.**

> DAVE  
>  To actually be serious for once, though, donations would be rad. I’m already strapped for cash and living on the college’s kindness since they’re letting me stay here. And the other option I have is a nursing home, so… I don’t know. Maybe I’d be better off there but I’d rather save that until I’m an old, grumpy single man. Or, ideally, just never go to one.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Makes sense to me. But, yeah, I might as well drop the act for five whole seconds, too. Honestly, Strider’s a pretty cool guy and I’d hate to see him shipped off to fucking wherever. So, if you’ve got some spare change or something um… Slam that fucking donate… He told me to say that, by the way.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Yeah, and you did it fuckin’ wrong, dude. You have to be more enthusiastic. Who’s going to slam that motherfuckin’ donate button now? No one. Because that was a sad, hollow attempt to garner support.

**The air of seriousness quickly dissipates. DAVE elbows KARKAT in the side and snickers quietly.**

> DAVE  
>  Way to fuckin’ kill it, dude.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Yeah, well I’m not meme trash. So suck that.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Aren’t you ace?
> 
> KARKAT  
>  I might be.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Whatever, asshole. So, statistically, the last video somehow has more views. Not that many more. We went from seventy-something to ninety-something; but, I guess that’s a good start. And some of you wanted to know about Karkat. So, I’ll let them introduce themself and try to only comment when they’re very obviously lying. Take it away, Kark.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  How about I take you and stuff you in the recycling bin?
> 
> DAVE  
>  Aw. I’m worth the recycling bin.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  I’m just being environmentally friendly, jackass. So, name’s Karkat. My grandparents are from Mexico. My brother’s an insufferable jackass who also has a YouTube channel, but I’d feel bad directing you all to it so… Nineteen. Agender. Ace. Homoromantic, I guess? And… uh…
> 
> DAVE  
>  This dude right here’s my significant other, y’all.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Oh. Yeah. That unfortunate fact. Unfortunately, this asshole also conned me into thinking he’s a smooth, charming guy so… I’m fucking screwed. And you’ve said that already, Strider.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Did I? Should I mention it again? Because you _are_ my significant other.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Dear God. I’m dating a dipshit.
> 
> DAVE  
>  But I’m _your_ dipshit.

**Again, DAVE elbows KARKAT in the side. He offers a small smirk.**

> DAVE  
>  So, for now, that’s all I’ve got. If you have suggestions for future videos, leave a comment. What do you think we’d be good at? Which YouTube niche should we fuck around with? Vote now on your phones.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Stop saying that.
> 
> DAVE  
>  You’re not my mom.


	34. "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Dream of Autumn | Song d'Automne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g73kOrhAai4)**  
>  Archibald Joyce  
> [1912](http://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/automne.html)
> 
> (The 1912 link is cool! It's an audio recording of the original Edison cylinder recording! ~~I'm a Titanic nut! Wanna see my research notes?~~ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND I'M HONESTLY NOT SURE IF I LIKE IT. I KIND OF WANT TO LEAVE NOW. CAN I? CAN I GET OFF OF THIS FUCKING RIDE? I WANT TO GET OFF OF MR. BONES' WILD RIDE BECAUSE THIS IS FUCKING OUTRAGEOUS. ALL I WANTED WAS A COLLEGE EDUCATION AND LOOK AT THE FUCKERY I GOT. I GOT THIS ASSHOLE AND HIS STUPID, SHITTY LITTLE SMIRK AND HIS STUPID FACE AND THIS IS NOT WHAT I FUCKING SIGNED UP FOR.

Two weeks have passed since Dave returned. You’ve been given the greenlight to allow him to use his elbow and wrist, but his shoulder is still on mandatory lockdown.

You’ve also managed to make it to Thanksgiving break.

Not that you’re going anywhere. You, alongside Rose and Jade, stay on campus.

And it just so happens to be the beginning of what is usually referred to as the holiday season and, as Dave had mentioned previously, he’s yet to actually experience a legitimate holiday. Thus, you, Jade, and Rose have teamed up to provide him with what Jade calls “The Authentic Holiday Experience.” ( _Yes. Apparently capitalized as a proper noun._ ) Essentially, you’ve agreed to take him somewhere on every day of the week-long break and wrap the fiasco up with a visit to some steakhouse.

As per Rose’s suggestion, the three of you won’t do a complete outing—in which all three of you go along with Dave—to keep him from getting too damned excited. Rather, you operate in pairs or alone. While you worked with Jade earlier to take Dave on an ill-advised trip to a nearby record store. You, being the rational one, had initially pointed out that all three of you ( _okay, fine, not necessarily you… your parents are pretty rich_ ) are pretty broke. ( _Really, you knew you’d be paying. Not that you really cared about dropping twenty bucks on Dave._ ) Still, the plan went ahead.

Today, however, is the day before Thanksgiving. So, you’ve opted to provide Dave with a cooldown day. There’s a small park a few blocks away and, being the love-struck hopeless romantic you are, you offered to take him.

What you didn’t expect was for it to be pouring down rain.

The bright side is that you brought an umbrella. The downside is that, of course, it’s fucking raining. And it’s cold because it’s goddamned fall.

Right now, you’ve parked your ass on a soggy park bench. It’s one of the old-fashioned ones—wooden slats contoured to fit the apparently average ass and worn smooth by the many asses that have actually been on it. You absentmindedly spin your umbrella in your hand. ( _Okay. Maybe you’re mimicking Animal Crossing, but growing up is for motherfucking losers. Fuck it._ )

After a few moments, however, a hand grabs yours.

You glance at the source, which just so happens to be Dave, whose leather jacket just so happens to be covered in water droplets.

“I’d like to not get any colder than I already am,” he mutters, wincing as his right shoulder rubs against the backrest of his chair.

“Sorry.” You frown and stop the spinning umbrella abruptly. Unfortunately, this has ends up splattering Dave with more water. “Shit.”

He, however, snickers. “You’re an idiot, Kark.”

“At least I’m not the one with hands made out of fucking ice,” you shoot back.

“And yours are hand-shaped furnaces,” says Dave, shrugging his left shoulder. Once this has been said, however, he pauses. He turns his head so that his shades are facing forward and clears his throat. “So… I… Um…” He rubs the back of his neck. If you’ve learned anything about Dave Strider since moving in, you’ve learned that rubbing his neck is one of his quirks. You’ve noticed that he does it often when he’s nervous or frightened. Or, perhaps, both. His voice alone, however, is enough to pinpoint these feelings. “Thanks for helping out, Karkat.”

“No problem.” ( _Admittedly, it’s been mildly annoying. It’s fucked over your schedule; but, you weren’t exactly planning on having a sleeping schedule, anyhow. You’re in college, after all. Who the fuck maintains a sleeping schedule in college?_ ) “Is that really what you were going to say?”

A nervous laugh comes from Dave. He taps the fingers of his left hand against the armrest. “No. Not exactly…” Some more forced laughter. A deep breath. “I… You know about the winter… social?”

“You mean the college dance or ball or buffet or whatever the fuck it’s supposed to be?” Knowing how it feels to work up the courage to say something, you resist the urge to look directly at Dave. Instead, you study his shoes.

Despite the fact that he never uses them for anything beyond aesthetics, they’re incredibly ratty. The red canvas is covered in dirt and patches where it’s been hand-sewn back together. There’s a grimy, mildly off-putting black halo at the ends of the laces. Compared to yours, they’re practically pieces of rubber held in place by scraps of red fabric.

Your thoughts mercifully fill the strained silence. Then, Dave speaks up. “I… Well… I mean… Ah. Shit. This is an awful idea.”

“It can’t be any worse than breaking Cronus’s nose,” you point out, hoping to at least lighten the mood.

And, surprisingly, Dave takes it. He snickers quietly and rubs his left hand against the knees of his pants. “Fine. Then…” His leg shakes slightly, a sign that you’ve come to learn is a sign of either anxiety or general distress. “I was wondering if you’d… Let me be your date… to the… social?” the further he gets into his inquiry, the quieter his voice becomes. The final word is but a tiny whisper. However, he rebounds quickly and, in his usual fashion, covers by going into a tangential rant. “Doesn’t need saying that I won’t be the best at the ball. I mean… I’m kind of out of commission right now as far as doing anything beyond being present is concerned, but… I don’t know. You can definitely say no. I’d totally understand. Like, hell, if I were you, I’d be running. I’d be fuckin’ running and not looking back. But…”

( _Holy shit. Where did he get this habit? Why? This is possibly his most glaringly obvious flaw in your opinion. His tendency to ramble to cover his own ass._ )

“Yeah,” you interrupt him and bask in the resultant silence. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ve literally had to put me in the shower?” Dave shrugs. “I mean… I didn’t think it’d be that easy. I’ve never actually… Except for Jade. I’ve never dated before and…” He frowns and runs his fingers through his hair. “It feels… weird. Like… Bro would disown me if he knew I was dating you…”

“Why?”

“Because it’s pretty damned gay,” Dave says, smiling nervously. “I mean… I half expect you to hit me sometimes. If that makes any sense.”

( _Oh shit. Well. You wanted him to be more relaxed around you. And you guess this is what you’re getting._ )

You look at him, brows furrowed, as you respond, “Why the fuck would I do that? Do I really give off that sort of vibe?”

“Everyone does to me,” Dave admits. “I don’t know. Bro used to do shit like that. And he said it helped build character. Something about getting stronger and tougher and not being such a fuckin’ baby all the time.”

A long, mildly discomforted sigh escapes you. “Look, Strider. You might be one of the most fucking annoying assholes I’ve ever met. And I might joke around with you about throwing you out the window, but I swear I would never actually intentionally harm you.” Here, you pause. The sound of the rain beating against the umbrella surrounds you. It’s rhythmic and calming. “I’m dead fucking serious, Strider,” you eventually manage to say. ( _Damn. You could’ve thought of something more meaningful than that. Fuck._ )

Dave nods slowly. He turns towards you. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Prove it.” For a minute, you’re prepared to answer seriously. You’re prepared to handle something in an adult fashion. Instead, Dave spits into his left hand and extends it towards you.

And, albeit with a good deal of reluctance, you reciprocate the gesture. “Can you do a single fucking thing without turning it into a schoolyard prank, Strider?”

“Nope,” he responds with a grin—the first genuine smile you’ve seen from him. And you’d be lying if you said your immediate reaction isn’t _holy shit_.

( _There’s a song about this somewhere. A musical. Oh. Yeah. You’ve passed the point of no return. Congrats, Vantas. You’ve fallen head over fucking heels for this try-hard jackass you call a roommate. Way to fucking go._ )


	35. "IS THIS HOW YOU MAKE FRIENDS?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Water Music**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kuw8YjSbKd4)  
>  George Frideric Handel  
> 1717

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS SUCH A FUCKING AWFUL IDEA. OH MY GOD. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?

Admittedly, going to John for information the first time wasn’t a great idea. And you’re fairly certain it won’t be a great idea now, either. But, he’s the person who knows Dave better than anyone. Hell, if John told Dave that it was safe to go skydiving with a lead parachute, you’re pretty sure Dave would just shrug and assume the idea to be completely factual. Or, in the more extreme scenario, he’d just fucking do it. Hell, you can see the headline now. “Skaia University Student Killed After Skydiving with Lead Parachute. More information on Skaia News at six.”

Whatever the case is, you need advice.

And you need it now.

Which is why you’re sprawled out on the floor of John’s room like, as usual, the most awkward houseguest ever. You stare at the ceiling and let forth a frustrated groan. “What the hell does Dave like?”

“He likes you?” John answers, obviously unsure of what he’s supposed to be responding with. “Like… For Christmas and shit?”

“Yeah. And his fucking birthday.” You cover your face with your hands. “Does he even like things?”

“I mean…” John shrugs. He sets aside his reading for a moment and chews on his lip. Then, he answers your question. “I’m not sure that Dave actually knows you’re supposed to get gifts on your birthday. Or for Christmas. Because he never did. I mean… I gave him gifts and he seemed pretty sure it was just a friendly coincidence that they were given on those specific days.”

“He… wasn’t?” you frown.

“Nope. But if you want to get him something…” John leaps from his bed and begins pacing back and forth across the room. He mutters mostly nonsense to himself, presumably in his usual manner of over-the-top demonstration of basic concepts. Then, he stops. He snaps his fingers like some sort of outdated cartoon character and, to be honest, you’re mildly disappointed when he doesn’t throw out some sort of shitty comment like ‘hot dog’ or ‘zoinks.’ What he says, however, is surprisingly valuable. “You could get Dave a piece of gum you scrape off the bottom of a table and he’ll think it’s the absolute shit. He’ll be so fucking flattered that you even bothered to scrape it off.”

“Really?” your frown deepens. ( _Shit. You hate shopping for people like that. Because you don’t know what sort of shit to actually get them._ )

“Oh. Fuck. He’d probably shit himself if he got a folder of blank paper. Because it’s creative or something dorky like that. Or ironic. Either.” A small shrug punctuates John’s statement. “You know, though, he really loves music. So music is always a safe bet. And, if you want to go above and beyond, you could find him a place to live.”

Now, John frowns. He shakes his head. “No. Nah. Don’t do that last one. He’d die of a heart attack. That’s too much kindness at once for him. Start small, go big. Um… Fun and weird fact is that he collects rubber ducks. The sort that you put in the windowsill so everyone who passes your house looks at them and goes, ‘Hm. What a weirdo.’”

You nod. “That was actually pretty damned helpful, Egbert. Thanks.”

“No problem, dude. Or… Should I say…?”

“Goddammit.”

“ _Bro_ problem?”

( _Why. What did you do to deserve all these dorks in your fucking life?_ )

A loud, long groan of annoyance escapes you. “Goddammit, John.”

 

* * *

 

“How’re you doing?”

You frown and glance over the edge of your bed, towards Dave, who just so happens to be pecking awkwardly at his laptop with his only useful hand. “You mean grades? Um… Decent, I guess. Pretty average.”

“How about Scratch’s class?”

After a moment of scouring your screen, you manage to locate the information Dave is looking for. “High C. You?”

From Dave comes a dissatisfied huff. “I’ve got a goddamned twenty. And I’ve turned in damned near everything.”

“Click on the check mark. It should have commentary.”

“I have,” he grumbles. “It’s just line after line of insults. Last one was that I painted a lovely picture on the ground, but the canvas was being graded.” There’s a grunt of discomfort as Dave awkwardly adjusts his position. “Not my fault I was borderline hypothermic.”

“Yeah. Scratch is an ass. Complain to the Provost,” you say. “I’ll go with you.”

“Maybe.” There’s a buzzing, electronic whir as the chair glides backwards. “Hey… um…”

“On it.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You set aside your laptop and descend from your lofted bed. You begin to go through the usual motions. By now, using the lift is easy. The hardest part is maneuvering it in the tiny dorm room.

As you’re moving him, however, a question crosses your mind. “Doesn’t that freak you out?”

“What?” The very top of a quirked brow is visible above the top of Dave’s shades. “This thing? Nah. It’s like a really shitty hammock.”

“So I could just leave you here?” you snicker, checking to make sure you’re not about to drop him on the floor before setting the machine to lower its sarcastic payload.

And, in return, Dave shrugs. “Theoretically.” A small smile flashes across his face. “You’re not half bad, Kark.”

“So, then, am I one quarter bad or something?” By now, you automatically respond to his conversational cues. It’s something that seems to make him far more comfortable with the situation. “Twenty-five present motherfucking evil?”

“Maybe.” He instinctively catches himself on the sheets with his left hand.

You shut the machine off and unhook the fairly ugly snot-green sling and haphazardly toss the covers at the foot of his bed to him. “That good enough?”

“Eh. Seven stars. Cute nurse with an abrasive personality.”

“Fair enough,” you say as you return to your bed. “Night, Strider.”

“Goodnight, Kark.”


	36. "WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS? THE YULE BALL?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Brandenburg Concerto**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLj_gMBqHX8)  
>  Johann Sebastian Bach  
> 1721

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BECAUSE, IF IT IS, WE'RE ALL FUCKING SCREWED. WHO THE FUCK IS GOING TO DEFEAT THE GREAT EVIL?

December third happens to be one of two momentous occasions in your relationship with the asshole known as Dave Strider. For one thing, it’s the winter social. For the… second… thing…? ( _Fuck._ ) The other main attraction is the fact that it’s Dave’s birthday.

Right now, however, you’re trying to finish getting Dave ready. Because _someone_ —and you won’t mention any fucking names ( _John_ )—had to go help _his_ girlfriend get ready. By now, you’ve gotten all of jack shit done. In fact, you’re currently acting as the world’s most exasperated tie rack.

“I’m not sure,” Dave muses, presumably studying the ties closely from behind the mirrored black lenses of his shades, “I’m not even sure I’m liking the suit. But… um… What do you think, Kark?”

“I already told you I’m partial towards the black one,” you sigh.

“Hm…” As he mulls this over for the umpteenth time, Dave tugs at his suit jacket. Half of it is simply draped over his injured shoulder, much to his disdain. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

You sigh loudly and proceed to begin the undoubtedly annoying routine of getting the damn thing tied.

Some of the wonderful phrases dropped by him include… “This is about as straight as Elton John.” Or… “Unless you’re aiming for choking me to death, I’d loosen it.” And, the classic… “I could’ve done this better myself.”

Of these, the latter is his final comment and you respond to it with a similar tone. “That’s wonderful, Dave. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re ace.” One of those shitty smiles—something that you’re starting to think might have been inspired by that stupid face that John makes after a particularly horrid joke—spreads across Dave’s face. And, as you dig through the assorted dirty clothing and mismatched shoes on his closet floor, he comments, “No. Not those. The black ones.”

“These are all goddamned sneakers, Dave,” you grumble. “You don’t have anything else?”

“Bro never gave me anything else. And it’s not like I needed anything ultra-formal until now,” he says with a shrug.

You return with a groan. “Fuck. Fine. Okay.” According to the digital clock taped to the wall, the time is 5:59. The event begins at 6:00. “We’re going to be so fucking late.”

“No,” corrects Dave, “We’ll be _fashionably_ late. I mean… If I’m going to draw attention, I might as well draw a whole fucking ton of it, right?”

“Yeah, whatever.” John’s shown you how to do most of what he does. It’s not actually all that difficult, either. You just need to make sure that you don’t tie the shoes too tightly. And, so, you conclude this part of the task quickly. “You ready?”

He nods and the two of you depart.

The walk there isn’t all that far. It’s a simple matter of following the sidewalk northwards until you hit the student center—the two-story building in the middle of campus that’s in line with the fountain.

Inside, you’re both given stick-on nametags. Leaning against the armrest, Dave scratches out his own. As usual, it’s in tiny, all lowercase, and surprisingly neat red print. He then fiddles with the tag until he manages to peel the pieces apart and stick it to his lapel. “Now you won’t forget my name, dude.”

“Unfortunately, I’ll never forget your fucking name, Strider.”

“Of course you won’t.” Dave grins. “So, what? They said they had food here.”

“Did you only come for the goddamned food?”

An innocent smile spreads across Dave’s face. “Possibly.”

You roll your eyes. “Jackass.”

To this, Dave responds with a smirk, a single finger gun, and a click of his tongue.

Not wanting to show your amusement, however, you turn away from him. In doing this, you allow yourself the luxury of a small smile. “How much longer do I have to deal with your shit?”

“Don’t know,” he admits, slowing to match your pace and remaining at your side. “Up to a year.”

Again, you roll your eyes. You infuse your next comment with enough sarcasm to make it less of a jab at him and more of a casual joke. “They didn’t tell me about that. I would like to resign from my post.”

“Too bad,” he sings, smirking. “Can’t do a thing about that. You’re bound by blood.”

“By blood?”

“You don’t remember the satanic pact? I gave you a document, you signed it with blood.” The smirk grows.

As does that strange, fluttering feeling in your gut. For a brief moment when you’re sure he’s not looking, you steal a brief glance. “I have to say, Strider, you’ve got pretty decent posture.”

“I’m cheating.” ( _Wow. That was quick._ ) He tugs his tie out of place for a moment to reveal a black stripe running across his stomach. “This thing has a seatbelt. Figured I might as well use it for something as stuffy as this, right?”

“Yeah. You could have tried to push the suspension of disbelief,” you shrug.

 

* * *

 

Time passes quickly. You meet some new people, though not many of them catch your interest. It’s mostly the standard cool kids. The athletes and cheerleaders. You do, however, see some people you know. John is here. And Rose—obviously with Kanaya. The night is, for the most part, uneventful.

Around 9:00, the music starts. Dave comments on the poor quality of the chosen DJ and, at some point, disappears to give him advice. Because that’s exactly what every professional needs. Some airheaded jackass telling them how to do their job.

Surprisingly, though, the DJ seems to take a liking to Dave. Hell, they let him do some technical fixes while he’s there. And, at some point, you hear his voice over the speakers wired throughout the gym. “Mhm. Yes. Is this thing on? Yes? Okay. Awesome. Karkat Vantas, your presence is requested—no—required by the sound system. Karkat Vantas to the sound system.”

( _Does he do this intentionally to embarrass you or is it just a coincidental side effect?_ )

Regardless of the heat which rises to your cheeks and the blush which, thanks to your complexion, is largely unnoticeable, you comply. You approach the massive mechanical sound system with mild apprehension. And, as you get nearer, that apprehension is justified. “What the fuck are you doing, Strider?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs and offers quite possibly the largest, shittiest grin you’ve ever seen. “Well, yeah. Something. A few things.” ( _He’s rambling again, isn’t he?_ ) “Well… Specifically, like, three.” ( _He is._ ) “First of all, if you see my half-eaten slice of pizza, feel free to grab it.” ( _It’s always best to just let him ramble. He’ll get to his point eventually._ ) “Secondly, my left foot slipped and it’s been stuck between the footrests for the last hour or so. I tried to get it back into place and it ended up getting my pants caught on something. So, that’s number two. And…” He pauses. His grin fades and is replaced by a small, sheepish smile. “You maybe want to… I don’t know. You. Me.”

( _Holy shit you can’t do this anymore._ )

“Jesus fucking Christ. You’re like a fucking racecar. You keep talking and talking and going everywhere but the goddamned point of your statement.”

“In my defense,” he says, smirking, “Racecars do get to the point. The point is the finish line.”

“Whatever,” you huff. You roll your eyes. “What do you want?” Around now, you address his second point. You kneel down and free his pants leg from the bolt it had somehow caught onto and reposition his foot. And, as you’re busy doing this, Dave seems to decide that he might as well spit out whatever it is he’s going to say.

“Ever been kissed before?”

( _Shit._ ) You rise to your feet slowly. “No?”

“Really?” There’s genuine surprise in his voice. “You’re a damned fine catch, Kark. But, anyhow…” A brief pause and a deep breath. “Would you mind if I was your first?”

( _SHIT._ ) “I…” ( _Fuck it. Life only happens once. Might as well say what you feel in your gut._ ) “Nope.”

“Great.” He inches forwards, until you’re within reach, and grabs onto your blouse and pulls you in.

Your lips meet and… ( _FUCK._ )

Okay. So…

His lips are pretty fucking soft. Why are they so soft? What the hell?

He’s pretty damned good. He’s not rough or abrasive. His hold on you is gentle enough for you to pull away if you really wanted to. ( _And, honestly, you don’t._ ) It’s not one of those weird sort of body-on-body things you saw in high school in the science hallways between classes. Not that such a kiss would be possible; but, it’s not aggressive or invasive. It’s not sexual. It’s a fairly quick thing—a moment when your lips meet his, a few seconds together, and, then, he releases.

And, as you back up, you notice him smirking. “For an asshole in a five thousand dollar chair, how was it?”

( _Don’t let him know you liked it. Don’t let him know you liked it._ )

“Hate to say it, Strider, but that was pretty nice.” ( _FUCK_.) The words have slipped from your mouth before you realize it and, now, you’re the one blushing. “I mean… for you… I guess…” ( _Play it cool._ ) “Guess I need another to really tell, though. That one wasn’t worth shit.” ( _DAMMIT._ )

“You’re on.” His hand grabs you once more and the process repeats.

On one hand, you swore you weren’t getting involved in romantic drama this year. On the other, Dave is pretty damned hot and he’s an admittedly nice kisser. And you hate it. Damn Dave Strider and his stupid fucking face and his counterintuitive charm and his shitty cool kid persona. Damn him to hell.


	37. "SHHH. YOU HEAR THAT NOISE?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**The World Emporium**](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/whisper-heart-original-soundtrack/id883007479)  
>  Yuji Nomi  
>  ** _Whisper of the Heart_** (1995) | Studio Ghibli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S THE SOUND OF MY SOUL BEGGING FOR THE SWEET RELEASE OF YOUR SILENCE, STRIDER. NO. STOP GIVING ME THAT LOOK. FUCK.

Two weeks after the social, everyone is beginning to go home. As far as you know, it’ll just be you and Dave for five weeks. Not that it’s a bad thing. Necessarily… Rose will be within spitting distance—about ten minutes down the street—and Dave is starting to have more freedom with his arm. Not enough to put him in the Olympics or anything; but, it’s more than before. At the very least, his sling is off. He’s allowed to use his elbow and lift a maximum of two pounds and forward only. That is, he can’t move his arm away from his body.

Thanks to this improvement, however, he’s returned to his usual chair, albeit with modifications. He’s been provided a rig which he’s mounted beneath the seat and hooked up to a pair of wheels that ultimately connect to an awkwardly added joystick near his right thigh. The unit is rigged to provide power and control to both wheels, though Dave has set it to let him more or less maintain manual control on the left wheel.

Beyond this, the holiday season is approaching. Having explained your predicament to your parents, they generously sent you five hundred dollars for “food, supplies, and general necessities.” Not that you need five hundred fucking dollars but… You _did_ fail to think of anything worthwhile to get Dave for his birthday; so, you’re planning on making it up to him on Christmas.

Only a handful of people remain on your hall at this point. And by “a handful,” you really mean “four fucking people.” It’s you, Dave, and two dudes down the hall who keep playing hallway golf and have managed to hit you with a surprisingly painful plastic golf ball twice and have also hit Dave three times. You note that they’re quick to apologize to Dave and only tell you to “grow a pair.”

Right now, however, you’re following Dave down a street that is awkwardly bisected by train tracks.

Though snow is falling, it’s not actually sticking to anything. Well... It’s not sticking to the roads.

It’s doing a pretty decent job of sticking to both you and Dave. His hair is dotted in white flakes and the snowfall gathers similarly on the waterproof blanket thrown over his legs. And, for this reason, you suggest that you both take a break inside.

“For what?”

“I’m cold and you’re covered in snow, Strider.” You fold your arms across your chest as you eye him over. “If I’m cold, I’m willing to bet my fucking spleen that you are, too.”

“Well… Yeah…” He tilts back into a wheelie, though he’s not able to hold it for nearly as long. If you had to guess, it’s a confidence issue; he’s not nearly as comfortable with only one working arm.

“You’re going to break your fucking back doing that, Strider,” you comment.

And, only when that familiar, shitty grin spreads across his face does it occur to you what exactly you just said. “Won’t be the first time I’ve fucked over my back, now, will it?”

“Jackass.” A gust of wind prompts shivering from both you and Dave.

At this point, he acquiesces. “Fine. I vote we hide out in that antique store.”

You nod in agreement.

Both of you narrowly avoid being hit by some jackass in a pickup truck going too damned fast for their own good before making it across the street. However, when you’re there, you take shelter beneath the overhang. Dave passes off his snow-covered blanket and you shake it off before returning it to him as you enter.

The inside of the store is fairly warm. It smells of old newspaper and wood and some sort of spice that you can’t exactly name. A friendly-looking, balding man in perhaps his last sixties stands behind the counter and offers you a small smile as you enter. To your relief, however, he doesn’t directly address you.

Seeing as you both figure it’s best to warm up some before making the trek back onto campus, you begin to wander around the store. Whereas you’re attracted to old books and posters, Dave is—to your surprise—intrigued by antique decorative wares. And weapons, though that’s to be expected.

At some point, when he’s sure the man isn’t looking, he nods towards a sword which leans precariously against a shitty old bookshelf. “Grab that.”

“No,” you automatically say. You’re not about to get involved in the next big headline. ( _Local Skaian University Student Accidentally Stabs Self with Antique Sword._ ) “Put that thing down before we get kicked out of here.”

“Aw. C’mon, it’s sheathed. It’s not dangerous at all.”

For some reason, you sigh and acquiesce.

And you immediately regret it. Because, as soon as you have a grip on the scabbard, Dave gets close enough to draw the blade out. He backs away from you, awkwardly holding the wheel with his thumb and forefinger and balancing the sword with his other three fingers. He moves it carefully through the air a few times before examining its blade. “Pretty standard rapier,” he shrugs,, approaches, and easily returns the sword to its proper place. “Nothing impressive.”

“It’s a fucking sword,” you hiss as you return it to a spot where you’re certain Dave won’t reach it. “What the fuck?”

“Bro and I used to have swordfights all the time. Each one was a strife. He usually won.”

“That’s not normal…” As you speak, you think back to the straight-edged scars covering his chest. You try to suppress the idea forming in your mind. “They were blunt, though, right?”

“Nope. Sharp as fuck. You could slice a piece of paper with Bro’s katana.” The way he says it makes it seem so normal. So innocuous. And, yet… “And, yeah, we were sword fighting when The Incident—with trademark symbol—happened. No big deal.”

You nod slowly and leave the topic at that.

Later, maybe. But not now.

Wandering further into the store—which is, despite its narrow façade—rather deep—you find a plethora of other things to poke and prod and nearly drop when you notice the price. Dave takes particular interest in a hideous little porcelain pig. It’s sitting on its ass, front legs in the air, and wearing a little tuxedo. It also happens to be smoking a pipe and wearing a bib.

“Isn’t this cute as fuck?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

Dave responds by setting the statue on his lap and pinching over the ears. He tuts at you disappointedly. “You’re hurting his feelings, Kark.”

“Yeah. And he’s hurting my eyes. Put that piece of shit back where you found it.”

Dave shrugs. He flips the pig and checks the price tag affixed to about where the animal’s anus would be. “He’s only five dollars, dude.”

“Because who the fuck wants that in their house?” you counter.

He, in return, offers you a simpering whine. “Please. Horatio wants to come home with me.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve already fucking named it.”

“Nah. He spoke to me, man. He spoke to me and said, ‘Yo. What’s up? I’m Horatio and you should take me back to your dorm.’”

Against your better judgement, you glance at Dave. There’s another Egbert-esque grin on his face and, despite the fact that your wallet is practically sobbing in your pocket as it begs for sweet, sweet death, you can’t find it within yourself to turn him down. So, you acquiesce. You pull out a twenty and hand it over to him.

“You want the change back or…?”

“Not if it’s paying for that fugly pig.”

Dave scoffs. He pushes his shades up long enough for you to see a wink.

( _Dear God. You’re going to have to look at that piece of shit now, aren’t you? Fuck._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur curious the date of this one is december 19


	38. "FIVE DAYS TO HELL."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Pastorale Rondo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79uXZKUKFUs)**  
>  Akira Senju  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_** (2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK.

Five days until Christmas.

If there’s one thing you didn’t expect Dave Strider to be absolutely fucking enamored with, it was Christmas trees. You, personally, have always found them tacky and stupid. Live ones dry out, catch on fire, and bring in bugs. Fake ones leave little pine needles everywhere and look like something from Thomas the goddamned Tank Engine. The lights are usually ugly fire hazards and the ornaments are, at best, annoying. At worst, they’re the type that literally screams and begs for your attention.

If anything, Dave is damned near addicted to ugly, kitschy decorations. Huge, glitter-coated, multicolored baubles. Racer lights and the type of multicolored lights that flash periodically to music or for just no good reason at all. In fact, he’s harassed you into taking him around town to look at the lights. After all, the college is situated in the middle of a certified suburban cluster, so…

“What the fuck do you like about these goddamned lights?” you mutter as you wrap your scarf around you to cover your mouth.  ( _Why is it so fucking cold? You’re freezing your fucking ass off out here. How the hell is he not complaining by now?_ ) “They’re so… stupid.”

“They’re nice to look at,” shrugs Dave. “I didn’t even know people decorated their houses for Christmas. I used to think that was just a movie thing.”

“Nah. People do it all the time. Gets fucking outrageous.” You, too, shrug. “One of my old neighbors burned their goddamned house down with too many fucking lights. It’s a waste of electricity.”

When you glance at him, you notice Dave frowning. Again, your angle gives you the advantage. You see his brows furrowing behind his shades. “I think they’re pretty neat. John showed me some photos the first time he visited.”

“You and John have known each other for a while, haven’t you?”

“Hm… Yeah. I guess. We were internet buddies before we actually knew each other.”

You nod. ( _This is going well. Keep it going._ ) “And when you met…?”

“We tried dating, but it didn’t work out.” Here, to your surprise, Dave snickers. “He got to be pretty good at helping out with my daily routine. Kind of like you, I guess.” He pauses and glances at you with one brow quirked above its corresponding reflective black lens. “Why?”

“Just curious,” you admit. “You and him are like goddamned brothers or something.”

 

* * *

 

**DAVE, a twenty-year-old man with seemingly nothing but secretly everything to hide, sits to the left of the camera’s center. To his right is KARKAT VANTAS, his nineteen-year-old significant other. As per usual, DAVE shows much more enthusiasm than the latter. The lights in the room are dimmed, though a combination of clever, softer lighting and camera angle allows for the pair to remain visible to the laptop’s built-in camera. Without the bright overhead light on, DAVE is free to film without his usual shades. As he’d stated in a previous video, his gaze is off-center; his pupils point to the left of the camera and, as a result, the screen. KARKAT, with their arms folded defiantly across their chest, looks deliberately away from the camera.**

> DAVE  
>  Just so we’re on the same page, this is the official Strider Christmas video. Because _someone_ promised me a fuckin’ rad Christmas celebration, right?

**As he says this, DAVE elbows KARKAT in the side. He grins. KARKAT, in response, moves their gaze even further from the camera.**

> KARKAT  
>  I… Um… Shut up, Strider. Just get on with the fucking video.
> 
> DAVE  
>  As you wish.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Was that a Princess Bride reference? God fucking dammit, Strider. Have you been looking through my movies again?
> 
> DAVE  
>  Your Netflix password is literally your parents’ cat’s name and your year of birth. It’s not exactly rocket science. Besides, it was a good movie. I see why you like it. It’s pretty funny.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  You hacked my Netflix?
> 
> DAVE  
>  It’s not hacking if your password reminder question is literally “What’s your cat’s name?”
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Fuck.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Anyhow, some people—and by some I mean, like, two people. Including my biggest and most embarrassing fan, butthole666, have asked about how I’m doing. Well, as you can see, the sling’s come off and I’m allowed to kind of move my arm around. Nothing useful yet, though. They said that’s not for another four weeks or more. Unfortunately.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Yeah. And I’m stuck with you in the meantime.
> 
> DAVE  
>  I’m just digging the love I’m feeling right now. It’s just so… Mm. Yeah. That’s some real friendship right there, Kark. Oh, hey, by the way, if you have any suggestions for nicknames for Shouty McFucknubs over here, feel free to comment. Subscribe if you like watching me talk. Or if you like Shouty screaming their little heart out over here. And, if you feel bad for me, redirect that misplaced pity into your wallet and donate to me. Email’s in the description.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  You have no shame, do you?
> 
> DAVE  
>  I have empty pockets. Does that count?
> 
> KARKAT  
>  No.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Then I fuckin’ guess not.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Dear mother of God. Why am I doing this with you?
> 
> DAVE  
>  Because you’re my lovely significant other whose verbal quirk just so happens to be surprisingly fuckin’ endearing to some people out there. At the very least, we’ve gotten more views than ever so…
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Whatever. I’m leaving to buy a burger or something.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Aw. Hell yeah. McDonald’s?
> 
> KARKAT  
>  None of your goddamned business, Strider.

**Despite their commentary, KARKAT makes it clear that they’re joking. They rise from their seat with a dramatic huff and walk off-screen before opening the door and waiting until DAVE speaks to slam it shut. Unbeknownst to the camera, however, they don’t leave the room.**

> DAVE  
>  Get me a Big Mac, dude.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  I’ll get you a big kick in the fucking ass.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Sounds hot. That’s all for now, though, so I’m wrapping this all up. Happy Holidays. Or whatever you celebrate or just don’t celebrate. Whichever. See you next video, right? Of fuckin’ course, right.


	39. "GET FUCKING FESTIVE, EVERYONE."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACTUALLY PLEASE DON'T. I AM NOT READY FOR THIS LEVEL OF ENTHUSIASM. EVERYONE NEEDS TO STOP, TAKE SOME TURKEY, AND SIT THE FUCK DOWN FOR FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. THAT CAN'T BE THAT FUCKING HARD, CAN IT? YOU SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND SHUT YOUR FUCKHOLE OF A MOUTH FOR FIVE MINUTES. STOP CAROLING. SHIT.

It’s the Dawn of the Final Day.

In other words, it’s Christmas.

It’s roughly 7:00 PM and, after you let them into the building, Rose and Kanaya have joined you for dinner. They’ve also brought gifts to exchange and, to Dave’s poorly masked delight, a full, roasted ham from their apartment.

Not that there’s anywhere to eat it. In fact, Dave is eating food from his lap. Everyone else is eating on the floor. Of course, you all have plates; Rose brought them. Surprisingly, you and the people around you around you are not absolute heathens. In fact, these are those pseudo-fancy plates that look and feel like porcelain. But they’re not. As Kanaya admitted earlier, it’s actually plastic.

Right now, however, it’s time for gifts.

With everyone in a circle, you simply toss the gifts around like hot potatoes. None of them are breakable, after all. You purchased a keyring with a fairly cute cat that meows when you flick its tail, for Rose. For Kanaya, you got a jade green scarf. Both gifts were received well.

The gift you’re worried about, however, is Dave’s—something that actually has two parts.

You bought him some gloves as the first half of the gift. Custom order. Waterproof. The leathery fabric on the outside is thin and pliable. Weatherproof, heat-retaining material lines the inside. You, of course, consulted the all-powerful internet for advice. And, seeing as she’s admitted to putting up a fifty dollar bet with Kanaya on how long your relationship with Dave will last, Rose also aided your efforts. Obviously, she has more faith in this affair.

They weren’t exactly wrapping material; so, you put them in a bag. A bright pink Victoria’s Secret bag that John gave you as a prank. And, when you presented them to him, he’d been pretty damned pleased.

As a whole, the night goes well.

It’s surprisingly calm and, when Rose and Kanaya leave around eight, you present Dave with the second half of his gift. Something you’ve been keeping a tightly guarded secret for the past few weeks. It’s not very impressive—little more than a piece of folded paper; but, what matters is what’s inside.

Dave, however, is never one to pass up an opportunity. “What’s this?” he says, raising his brows inquisitively, “A gift card to Starbucks?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. You give the most elusive answer possible.

If there’s one thing you’re not certain about, it’s this gift.

Sure, John suggested it but…

“Well. Shit.”

You glance up and find that Dave’s expression is impossible to read. His voice, though, hints at some sort of shock. Whether or not it’s good or bad is something you can’t say with confidence. So, you watch him closely.

You watch as he raises his shades and squints at the printed text on the page. As he quietly refolds the page and, finally, offers you a small but infuriatingly enigmatic smile. There’s a sense of mischief about him. Something about the way he holds himself whispers to you that he knows what he’s doing as he silently sticks the paper into his wallet and gives you a gentle shove as he passes you. He knows he’s digging his heel into your uncertainty and, while you hate it, there’s a small part of you that likes it. It’s something suspenseful. Something to think about…

 

* * *

 

**Unlike the past few videos, DAVE, a twenty-year-old blond, sits at the center of the video’s frame. The background is different than the usual dorm room; and, obviously, it’s being filmed elsewhere. More specifically, DAVE has moved himself into the lounge outside of his dorm.**

> DAVE  
>  Okay… so… Here’s the deal. Shouty McFucknubs fell asleep. Probably tired ‘em out with all of the Christmas shit and whatnot so… Point is, I’m not waking them up for a video and this one’s probably better done alone. So…

**There’s a brief silence. DAVE shifts his position, leaning awkwardly against his left arm as he does so. Though it’s not visible in the video, his eyes wander around the room behind the mirrored lenses of his shades. From time to time, his left knee shakes; and, due to the angle at which he’s filming, it’s something that shows. A close observer might notice the slightest hint of discomfort at these times. Otherwise, DAVE holds himself with his usual, apathetic poise.**

> DAVE  
>  Anyhow, I thought I’d address this topic that a few people have thrown out to me of whether or not I’d change things or do thigs differently. Or… Maybe the best idea I’ve got here is the hypothetical situation of having a genie. And, apparently, there’re a few people who want to know if I’d wish myself back to quote-unquote _normal_. Well…
> 
> DAVE  
>  …
> 
> DAVE  
>  …The answer, at least for me, is a pretty solid ‘nah.’ I mean… Don’t take me as the model. Everyone’s different. If Sesame Street and all that fuckin’ shit only taught you one thing, it’s probably that. But… Ah. Shit. This is going to be the most fuckin’ awkward video.

**There’s a brief cut. While not much changes, DAVE’s position has shifted so that he leans a bit more to the right.**

> DAVE  
>  But, at least for me, I’m pretty chill with life. And I’m going to say that the whole idea of normality is an iffy thing. Like… um… Fuck… I can’t think of an example, so I’m going to compare it to grey morality or whatever the fuck you call it. I’d stay away from it. Not to sound like an academic asshole or something like that, but it’s got some shitty implications that I’d rather not get into. Just… I, personally, ain’t a fan of the whole idea of normality.

**He clears his throat and turns his shades away from the camera. If a viewer were to look closely, a brief glimpse of his red irises might be caught. The more DAVE says, the more he fidgets. He twiddles his thumbs and toys with various parts of his chair. He rubs the back of his neck.**  

> DAVE  
>  See, there’s not much I really hate about shit the way it is. I’m doing whatever the fuck I want to. And, to be fuckin’ real, I can do whatever the hell I want. It just takes some creativity sometimes. Sometimes. Not all the time. Usually, it doesn’t. It’s just how shit is and… Yeah. It’d be nice being able to go out and not get patronized or whatever. And being able to go wherever however would be rad. But it’s not that much of a problem. Hell, from what I know, the places that don’t have any sort of accessible entries are places where I sure as fuck won’t be spending my money. If I had any, of course.
> 
> DAVE  
>  …
> 
> DAVE  
>  Anyhow. Happy New Year if I don’t get around to uploading anything. This is Dave Strider signing out and reminding you to… um… Do shit. Yeah. Let’s go with that. Do shit. Do whatever the hell you want as long as it’s not bothering anyone who’s not a fuckin’ asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "but what was the gift?" you might be asking  
> the answer to that is that you'll have to wait and see


	40. "HERE LIES KARKAT VANTAS."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Stairway to the Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrLB3-GsNSI)**  
>  Glenn Miller  
> (1939)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KILLED BY SOME EXCESSIVELY CUTE FUCKING ASSHOLE. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, STRIDER.

It’s the second of January.

Yesterday, you made the mistake of letting Dave buy himself a game on your old Steam account. And, for the past however fucking many hours, you’ve been listening to him act like an admittedly adorable but still mildly annoying YouTube gamer.

“Dude. Hey. Kark. Dude.”

“What, Strider?” you groan, peering over the edge of your bed and towards the blond sitting on the bed below. He’s wrapped in the bright red knitted blanket that Rose made him. A shitty grin is spread across his face as his fingers fly over your old USB controller. ( _Obviously, he hasn’t lost a lick of dexterity._ )

“I’m gonna fuck the robot.”

You sigh. “You’re going to fuck the robot?”

“Nick Valentine.” He nods sternly. It’s as if he’s said the wisest, most serious thing ever. As if he’s dropped the secret to world peace. “He’s one fuckin’ hunk of hot steel.”

“Really?” You flop back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling. “Aren’t you medically mandated to _not_ fuck for a while?”

“He’s a robot. He can go real gentle. Real, real gentle.” Again, Dave is sure to make these words seem like the absolute secret to goddamned nuclear disarmament. “Stroke that sweet synth cock.”

You choke on your own spit. Whether it’s from disgust, embarrassment, amusement, or a combination of the above is unclear. What _is_ clear is that he’s trying to get a reaction from you. So, after coughing a few times, you answer as evenly as you possibly can, “That’s fucking lovely. How certain are you that this robot has a cock?”

“Because I dreamed about it last night, dude. You didn’t hear my sweet, electronically stimulating words? I turned his circuits on, Kark. Those circuit breakers? They went fuckin’ boom.”

Though you feel you’ll regret it, you glance over the edge of the bed long enough to catch a glimpse of the shittiest grin you’ve ever seen. ( _In fact, you’ve been seeing a good amount of these since you started hanging out with Dave._ ) “Great. Go get yourself fucking electrocuted. I won’t be paying for your funeral.”

“Really?” Dave snickers. Then, suddenly, he yelps. “OH. FUCK.”

“Let me guess?”

“I FUCKIN’ HATE FERALS,” he practically screeches. You hear the hard plastic joysticks clicking against the dark grey body of the controller. “DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK. THESE THINGS ARE FUCKIN’ AWFUL.”

“Piss yourself again?”

“That was an exclusive situation that could have possibly killed me,” he replies sternly. Somehow, though, you feel like he’s not looking to be taken seriously. “Okay. Very, very, very tiny chance that it could’ve killed me.”

“And what about those feral ghouls?”

Dave sighs. It’s a long, disheartened noise. “Yeah. Those killed me, too. They killed me, man.”

“Because you suck, Strider.”

Here, he returns with a sound not unlike the purring of a cat. It’s a mildly off-putting noise, actually… “I sure _do_ suck, bro. I suck some Dick Nick dick. Slurp up that lubricant.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Maybe,” Dave says with a smirk. “Really, though, Nick’s my favorite companion.”

“Really?” ( _Aw. Shit. Favorite characters usually have personal information attached. Sweet._ ) “Why?”

“Because he’s one sexy piece of human innovation.” There’s a brief pause. The sound of a machine gun firing off a series of rounds fills the silence and the sound of an exploding car ends it. “He’s pretty nice, though. Not too cocky. Not too annoying. And I mean, yeah, Dogmeat’s cute a fuck. Adorable as hell. But, Nick doesn’t block every fuckin’ doorway to exist. Smart. Underhandedly snarky…”

“Great laundry list for a future partner, Strider.” To be honest, your goal at this moment is to urge conversation onwards. “What’s next? Dark and moody?”

“I mean… What’re you, Kark?”

“At least I’m not a robot.”

“I feel like I could make a joke about all the ace representation being robotic but…” Dave sighs. There’s another brief stretch of silence before he continues. “Nick’s… Neat. He has something he wants to fix in the world. I mean… I’d love to be like Nick. He’s the perfect hard-boiled detective with just the right amount of macho.”

“Macho?”

“Yeah.” The way Dave says it makes it seems as if this is the most common knowledge in the world. “He’s brave.”

“You’re pretty brave—”

“AUGH.” He cuts you off. “Please. Not the inspirational speech again. I hate those speeches.”

“You mean the whole thing about how inspired I am by your ability to _overcome_ your so-called obstacles?” you say, emphasizing your words with air quotes that you position over the side of the bed. “Because I’m really not. I think you’re a fucking dork. An absolute goddamned dork. And I sincerely hope that no one ever tries to emulate you.”

There’s a sound of relief from Dave. A long, mildly exhausted breath. “Fuckin’ amazing. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that.” He pauses. The video game echoes in the room for a few minutes before, to your surprise, he clears his throat. It's something that makes you jump slightly. “Y’know, Kark, it’s pretty fuckin’ cold down here. Me and the two thirds of my body without the ability to regulate its own temperature? Yeah. We're fuckin’ freezing. Freezing my balls off, dude.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” you respond uncertainly.

He laughs nervously. Around the same time that something else explodes in the game, he provides an answer. “You should move your ass down here and sit next to me.”

“Fine.” You climb down and comply with this proposal. Sitting next to him, you’re enveloped in his scent. It’s a fine combination of oak wood and coffee beans. Most of your attention, however, is naturally draw towards the computer screen.

He’s a pretty good gamer, actually. Good reaction time. Funny commentary.

As it stands, he’s gotten into the habit of calling packs of feral ghouls “Sun-Maids.” He attributes this to the fact that he thinks that they look like raisins. ( _They’re the least healthy and most abnormal raisins you’ve ever seen, if that’s the case. Aside from that, raisins don’t have the ability to become mostly non-sentient humanoids with a thirst for blood._ ) And, from time to time, there’s that moment—that brief second of genuine, dorky, Egbert-esque laughter that comes from time to time.

And, as time passes, you find your eyelids beginning to grow heavier. They slide closed. Slowly. Your head moves until it’s against his good shoulder and, at some point, you swear you feel him running his fingers through your hair. You might also hear him commenting on how “fuckin’ soft” your hair is; though, you’re not sure… You’re not too sure what’s happening, and…

Oh. Hey. Sleep.

That sounds like such a wonderful idea…

 

* * *

 

It’s late when you wake up. Dave has shut off the computer but, as a whole, neither of you have moved. His head rests against your shoulder, now, and it’s a nice feeling.

He’s worked the blanket so that it’s wrapped around you, too. And his fingers are intertwined with yours. His chest rises and falls steadily. His hair which, you have to admit, is pretty damned nice, brushes against your cheek. It’s smooth and thick and full.

And, with this on your mind, you fall back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggestions for events in future chapters and whatever are welcome because this is probably gonna be a huge fuckin prose dump


	41. "WELL, HELL. UM. FUCK."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**My White Knight**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2hScUR_YDc)  
>  Barbara Cook  
>  ** _The Music Man_** (1958) | Capitol Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU'VE EVER BEEN PERSONALLY VICTIMIZED BY DAVE FUCKING STRIDER.

 January 12th.

Classes will begin again at the end of the month.

For now, you’re enjoying your time with the jackass you call your boyfriend. Right at this very moment, though, you’re sprawled out on the ground. You’re fairly certain that your ass is bruised; and, if it’s not, you’ll eat your own goddamned shit. Because, damn, that slip fucking hurt.

Dave, however remains perched in his chair like a spoiled child. A huge, shitty grin is spread across his face. He leans forwards, resting his weight on his elbows. Primarily, however, he’s putting his weight on the left arm. His hands are folded in front of him and his hands covered in the gloves you’d given him for Christmas.

Now, you suppose you should explain something.

His chair’s been modified again. The power control has been removed. The right wheel is now hooked to something similar to the old setup. Now, however, it’s set to equalize the force of his push on the left wheel. According to Dave, it’s comparable to four-wheel-drive; though, you’re not sure you really grasp that comparison. All you know is that he’s been told to start getting back into his old routine.

For the most part, though, he relies on his left arm. He uses his right primarily to brake and turn by catching the corresponding wheel with his hand. Other than that, he makes comparatively weak attempts at pushing from time to time.

Not that you’re shaming him or anything. He had a pretty important part of his shoulder replaced; it’s going to hurt. And, if the occasional cracks in his composure mean anything—the subtle winces and the times where he ends up holding ice to the affected shoulder—it still hurts. It fluctuates from day to day.

Today is one of the better days. Obviously.

Back to the present, however…

“Loser.” He snickers. He takes his hat—a plain knit cap that he’s stuffed with snow and tied shut with a shoelace—and presses it against his shoulder. It’s not too hard to figure out that he’s getting tired; but, he’ll never show it upfront. Instead, he playfully mocks you. “How’d you manage to lose your balance, anyhow? Two feet on the ground, Kark. Two feet on the ground.”

“Says Dave goddamned Strider,” you grumble.

He shrugs innocently. Feigns the smile of a saint as he shrugs and turns so that the footrest of his chair is a few inches from your face. He locks his wheels in place and offers you his hand.

You, not exactly eager to continue sitting on an ass bruised by cement and embarrassment, accept the offer. With a bit of work, you stagger to your feet; but, not before nearly pulling him over in the process.

Naturally, he responds with an indignant huff. He wipes his left hand on your jeans. “I am currently recovering from major surgery, dude,” he huffs. “Are you trying to fuckin’ kill me?”

“Maybe I am,” you shrug.

He smirks. He motions for you to lean over and, after giving you a quick and unexpected kiss on the cheek, wraps his good arm around your neck.

You know what to do from here. You lift him a bit, relieving the pressure on his legs and back for a few seconds before letting him settle back into place.

He, meanwhile, switches the topic of the conversation. “You’re not all that bad, y’know.”

“Well… You’re dating me,” you sigh, “I’d assume you enjoy hanging out with me.”

“Yeah.”

You turn and lead Dave into the family-owned grocery store on the corner about three blocks from your dorm. Experience has taught you to pause briefly and allow him to reposition himself after the fairly sizable jump which separates the sidewalk and the floor of the store—the metal plate which spans the threshold. You hear the old and probably long past-due parts of his chair creaking as he presses against his shaking left leg and, when the sound eases into silence, you continue.

Over the past few weeks, you’ve spent a fair amount of money; still, you’ve got a hefty $250 left. “What’re we getting that we don’t fucking need this time, Strider?”

He shrugs. With a bit of luck and a lot more skill—techniques and motions learned over the course of slightly more than a decade—he works his way into the fairly narrow space. You know that, behind those shades, he's scanning every aisle. Scrutinizing every item. And, at the same time, he’s watching himself to make sure he doesn’t cause some sort of catastrophic domino effect. “They have any apple juice?”

You sigh and peer into the fridge to your right. It’s about the depth of a standard bath tub and there’s no practical way for Dave to see what’s inside. Still, you have a feeling that you’d get your ass kicked all the way into the next galaxy if you lied about the answer. So, you snag a gallon and set it on his lap.

For your efforts, you’re rewarded with a tongue click and double finger guns.

You continue onwards, managing to snag everything you and Dave will need for under one hundred dollars.

And, from there, you head to the local pharmacy. Here, Dave picks up his prescriptions.

Both of you then begin the short trek back to campus.

 

* * *

 

Around midnight, you’re woken by a quiet, familiar voice. Dave’s voice. “Kark. Dude. You awake?”

You sigh, roll over, and peer over the edge of your bed. Though it’s too dark to see him and your eyes have yet to adjust, it’s a habit. And habits are hard to break. “Hm?”

“It’s fuckin’ cold,” he replies.

“Yeah. It’s winter. So?”

“Weird question… You mind… sharing the bed with me?”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat and, when it returns to normal, you hear it pounding in your ears. “I… What?”

“You don’t have to, but…”

Though part of you is hesitant, you find yourself moving without really thinking about it. You descend from your lofted bed and stand beside Dave’s as he scoots over to make room for you.

He fixes everything so that it’s in a position he’s comfortable with. When he’s done, he nods.

By now, enough time has passed for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. You comply and carefully situate yourself next to him, taking care to set yourself up so that your back is against his. The roughly repaired section of his spine digs into your shoulder, though it’s not uncomfortable enough for you to feel the need to move.

“You didn’t have to, dude. I was just saying…”

“Can it, Strider,” you mutter. You find yourself burying your face in the half of the pillow that’s yours. You breathe in his scent in a way that, out of context—and, perhaps, even in context—might be a bit creepy. But he _does_ smell pretty damned good.

He, in reply, offers a huff of what you guess is satisfaction. His breathing lulls you to sleep.

And, at some point, you wake up to find your arm draped over him. Despite the fact that he’s the tallest, he’s positioned himself like the so-called little spoon. His hair brushes against your face and his slightly curved, crooked back presses against your chest and stomach. Part of you wants to move—to go back to the more modest position you’d assumed when you’d fallen asleep. Instead, you simply remain as you are. You close your eyes and, for perhaps the first time in a long while, you fall asleep with a smile on your face.


	42. "MOVE THE FUCK OVER."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Eine kleine Nachtmusik](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb_jQBgzU-I)**  
>  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU'RE TAKING UP SO MUCH BED SPACE. WHAT THE FUCK. DO YOU EVEN NEED THIS MUCH SPACE, STRIDER?

February second harkens the arrival of a new semester. The beginning of a tedious balancing act with your academics on one side and Dave Strider on the other. Not that he needs much help at this point. He’s getting more movement back in his arm and he’s been approved to slowly start rebuilding his strength. On his best days, he only asks you for help getting out of bed. Otherwise, he’s perfectly fine on his own.

On his worst days, however, he’ll spend a majority of his time in bed. His forehead will be pressed to the cold cinderblock wall. Verbal communication is little more than affirmative or negative grunts.

Today is the first day of classes. It’s also an apparent bad day. Or, as Dave has dubbed it, a Bad Time. You’re fairly certain he’s referencing Undertale, but, knowing him, he could’ve just pulled it out of his ass.

It doesn’t matter, though. Where his terminology comes from—the etymology of the ever-enigmatic Strider—doesn’t matter.

What matters is that you wake up to the sensation of the bed shaking. His legs—both, this time—rub against your shins. When he realizes you’re awake, he manages an apologetic smile. “I probably woke you up, right?”

“Yeah.” It’s not as if you can lie about that. What else would wake you up beyond that weird, spacey guy in clown makeup breaking into your room? “It’s fine.” You roll over and turn on Dave’s desk light. From his drawer, you pluck a container of medicine. Time has taught you which bottle is which. The largest of them all happens to be something that—if the label is to be believed—calms his spasms. The second largest is filled with painkillers. Still, the top is marked with a bright red sticker.

The orange container changes hands. He dumps out a handful and rolls the rest back into the bottle. To your annoyance, he downs them without water; you couldn’t make it to the sink fast enough.

When you open your mouth to comment, he interrupts. “I hate to ask you this,” he mutters, his voice quieter than usual, “But I need you to stay up for a while.”

“What?” you pause. Your annoyance dissipates; concern replaces it. “You okay, Strider?”

A nervous laugh precedes his reply, “Happens sometimes. I’ll get myself checked over by the health center tomorrow.” He gasps and lets forth a strange noise that’s a mixture of a moan and a whine. “Long story short, some shit is going down inside of me. And, unfortunately, it’s not anything related to hot sex.”

“Disgusting,” you interrupt.

He offers a hoarse laugh. By now, you notice that he’s sweating; or, rather, from the halfway point of his chest and up is sweating. “Really, though, I hate asking this. But I’m not shitting you when I say this could kill me.”

“With what? The weight of your dramatics?” you scoff and pull up your desk chair. You sit down beside the bed and grab your laptop.

“Ha.”

“You mind if I play Fallout?”

Dave shakes his head. “Nah. It’d be great if you turn it down a little. The game and your fuckin’ voice. Someone decided it was time to stab me in the skull with an icepick.”

You nod. “How’re you still talking, then?”

A frown serves as the initial response; a period of awkward silence follows this. Then, after a few deep breaths, he speaks up. “I’ve lived with this for years. Twelve years.” He gags and coughs a few times. “Bro didn’t give a damn what was going on. He’d drop a sword on my chest and tell me it was time to fuckin’ strife. I’ve fought him like this. Talking ain’t that much of an issues except for… Fuck. Get the trash can.”

“What?” you frown. The sudden change of topic has thrown you off. Still, you manage to comply. You hand it over just in time for him to vomit into the solid plastic bin.

When he finishes, he rolls back over. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Shit. Sorry. Tomorrow’s the first day of classes, isn’t it?”

“No problem.” In all honestly, it’s a bit of a lie. You’re mildly annoyed; after all, you came here for academics. Instead, you ended up embroiled in a romance with the most insufferable, melodramatic person on campus. Still, a good percentage of you doesn’t mind this. In fact, you’re kind of enjoying your time with him. It certainly sucks that he’s in pain, but, you’re getting some extra time with him before classes begin. “If you don’t mind me asking…”

“My chest…” the words escape Dave between a series of shocked, sharp inhales. “You want to know about the scars, don’t you?”

You nod.

He offers a bitter smile. “Bro and I fought a lot on the roof. No one knew we were there. Swords only.”

“Oh.”

Now, Dave nods. “Tell me something, Kark.”

“Hm?” You look at him expectantly and wait until his breathing evens out again.

“Why’re you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Part of you knows what he’s asking; but, you want the confirmation. You’re not about to answer a vague, loaded question.

“Helping me,” he mutters. “No one else has done this. Maybe beyond the first foster family I lived with.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Avoid the question. Evade answering until you can come up with one. “I’m dating you, after all.”

“Do you think I’m a p—y?”

Your natural reaction to this is to wrinkle your nose. If there’s one thing you have to say about Dave, it’s that he’s yet to completely rid himself of some of his less pleasant vocabulary. “No,” you answer firmly.

Dave frowns. “So, what? You think I’m some sort of inspiration?”

“I’ve already told you no to that, too, Strider.” You frown. However, you keep your eyes on your laptop. A sense of discomfort begins to eat away at you. “Where is this—?”

“Bro used to call me a wimp. Told me that pain isn’t worth shit.” He groans and shoves himself into a sitting position. “Is it… worth… anything?” he pauses. His brows furrow into a nearly unified line of confusion. “Pain, I mean,” he quickly clarifies.

“I mean…” You pause. Rose warned you about something like this; but, you’re not sure if such a mild disclaimer was sufficient. Because, right now, you’re not exactly sure of what to say. “It’s something that’s happening to you, I guess.”

“Fuck. I…” He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “I think it’s starting to calm down.”

“You think?”

“Not feeling as fuckin’ out of it,” he shrugs. “It’s… It’s nothing, really. Happens from time to time. Usually when I’m not paying enough attention to my routines as I should be.”

You sigh and close your laptop. After setting it back on your desk, you wait for Dave to move over. When he has, you crawl back into bed and turn out the light.

Unlike the first night you slept with him, you’re no longer uncomfortable with wrapping your arm around him. You’ve come to savor the warmth of his body against yours. His breathing has become a sort of hypnotic force. It eases you to sleep ever night. His hair is as soft as the pillow, and it’s fucking beyond you as to how he keeps it that way. And his scent—the distinctive scent of Strider—is so familiar. So welcoming…

“Karkat?”

You pause as you feel him shifting his shoulders, throwing one away from you to turn his body a bit more onto his side. “Hm?”

“I… um…” His words stop abruptly.

You wait for a few minutes before asking him about it. “You’re what?”

“I…” A nervous laugh escapes him. Then, after a deep, shaky breath, he finishes his statement. “I think I like you, jackass.”

And you, after a genuine snort of laughter of your own, roll your eyes. “I just might like you, too, you fucking puffed up shitstain.”


	43. "IS THIS A DISNEY MOVIE?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Moonlight Piano Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU)**  
>  Beethoven
> 
> (look i'm getting lazy here and this is classical music)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A FUCKING DISNEY MOVIE. DOES THAT MAKE STRIDER MY PRINCE? PLEASE SAY NO. ANYONE BUT THIS.

His hands are, as usual, cold. His fingertips brush against your chin like ice; each touch is quick and calculated, as if he knows the temperature of his own hands. Still, it’s not an overly uncomfortable feeling. And, if it was, he makes up for it. Under the pretense of testing his tie knot, he pulls you into another of his brief, elusive kisses. A brief moment where your lips meet his. And, as he pulls back, he pops the collar of his stupid, reddish leather aviator jacket—one with patches covering the chest.

Admittedly, though, the patches are amusing. They’re also surprising; you’d never have pegged Dave as the type who’d learn how to sew, much less embroider. Not that it matters. All the patches are hand-made and sewn on with bright red thread that clashes with the jacket and, quite often, the patch, itself.

Amongst these patches, you have a few favorites. One is an unfilled design—lines only. A yellow triangle with the standard walking man icon; but, the icon’s been modified to suit Dave. Another seems to have been made in the same vein of thought. This one is proudly sewn in a place of honor on his breast pocket. It’s a simple textual design and perhaps the only patch that matches the red thread it’s secured to the jacket with. “TOUCH THE CHAIR AND I’LL KICK YOUR ASS.” The letters are bold and clear; and, obviously, the message is, too. As if that’s not enough, he’s affixed another patch to his shoulder. This one has text in plain black: “ASK BEFORE YOU HELP. I’LL PROBABLY SAY NO.”

Naturally, though, you’re curious. Where the hell had Dave learned how to…? Wait…

“Did Rose teach you to embroider?”

"Actually, I taught myself. Got kind of boring being alone all the time in the hospital." Dave nods proudly. He taps his left index finger against the patch on his breast pocket. “I think I put it to some damned good use.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “You’re sure to offend any old potato sack who dares to cross your path.”

“And I should,” he responds, brows raising until they’re visible above the lenses of his shades. “If they’re offended, they’re less likely to want to help.”

“On the fucking contrary,” you quip back, “I’m often offended by your asinine presence and I continue to help you. For some un-fucking-fathomable reason, I’m still helping you.”

In response, he offers a grin and a wink. “It’s because I’m so fuckin’ amazing, Kark.” He elbows you in the side.

You’ve come to learn that he’s got more strength than he thinks he does. A gentle punch from Dave is the rough equivalent of a solid kick in the face from Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. At some point, you mentioned this; you’ve regretted doing so ever since. After all, he’s continued to recycle that line for quite a while. And this is no exception. Still, you suck it up.

“So, you ready?”

You frown. Your gaze falls upon Dave. A wide, unabashed grin is spread across his face. With his shades, though, it’s hard to pinpoint his exact feelings. “Shit.”

Somehow, he gets even dorkier. He offers you double finger guns and an odd eyebrow waggle. “You’re the one who asked, Kark.”

You sigh. “Yeah. Big fucking mistake.”

 

* * *

 

The basic situation is this.

A few days ago, you bought something for Dave while you were out. You’ve noticed that the chain he hangs the small cross on—the one he keeps tucked beneath his shirt at all times—has gotten dirty. It’s falling apart and, on more than one occasion, the necklace has come off. In these cases, it’s been saved only by the fact that it landed in his lap. So, you bought him a new one.

It’s a braided gold chain. One that you dropped a pretty penny on to fit it with an alternative clasp—a small, magnetic pill whose magnets hold the chain securely around the neck it adorns. And, as far as you’re concerned, it’ll look fucking amazing on him. Although, thinking about it, he’ll look good in a fucking potato sack.

Now, though, you’re not quite ready to hand it over.

Looking at him… His face lit by the soft, flickering glow of the clichéd candlelight on the clichéd white tablecloth in the clichéd romantic restaurant…

“You’ve been poking at your pocket for the past twenty minutes, dude.”

You jump. You look towards Dave, who’s currently offering you a wide smile. The sort of smile that says ‘I know you’re up to something.’ “What?”

“Just give it to me already.”

“Give you what?” you scoff.

He, in return, pushes his shades up enough for you to see him roll his eyes. “You think I just sit around like a sack of shit all day?” he snickers. To further solidify this claim, he pulls from his pocket a receipt. Specifically, _your_ receipt. “Look,” he says, waving the piece of paper in your face, “Hiding this on the top shelf ain’t worth shit.”

“How the hell did you?”

“You still haven’t disassembled the lift, and that thing goes surprisingly high.”

“You… What?”

Dave shrugs; though, he winces and grabs his shoulder shortly afterwards. “Underestimating me, Kark.” He tuts and wags his finger like some sort of high-and-mighty teacher. “That’s a huge no-no. Ah. That’s definite time-out—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” you groan. You eye the platter of food held aloft by an approaching and stuffy-looking waiter. Steak and a burger. Definitely your table… So, taking the opportunity, you toss the box across the table.

He unties the thin ribbon you’d tied it shut with. Somehow, his shitty grin has grown larger. “I’m so surprised, dude.”

“Oh. Stuff it up your ass, Strider,” you grumble, still thoroughly deflated about your failed plan.

Dave, however, backs out of his spot. He approaches you and puts his hand on your shoulder. “Really, though, I’m pretty fucking flattered.”

“You’re also an absolute asshole.”

He shrugs. He pulls you into another quick kiss.

This just so happens to occur just as your waiter arrives. By the time your lips part, your food has been frantically abandoned atop the table.


	44. guess who is back in the house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Requiem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPlhKP0nZII)**  
>  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
> 
> (have a whole fuckIN HOUR OF MOZAAAART)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for now at least probably not for long

Yes, I know. It’s shocking. That Karkat would ever hand over the narrative reigns to anyone—much less me—it’s a true shock. It’s pretty fuckin’ startling, really. Outrageous. Unbelievable. But, that’s enough of that. Let’s talk about me.

Name’s Dave Strider. Full name is David Budweiser Strider. Yes. My middle name comes from the beer company. I didn’t choose it. My dead dad did. And, speaking of that, I’m a legal orphan. I have been for most of my life. Not that it matters. I don’t remember much about my parents. And, beyond that, I’ve made myself a new family. A group of four internet friends and, from college, it’s branched out to include a group of ragtag stragglers. I’ve also landed a significant other. They’re Karkat Vantas; but, I’m going to assume you know all this.

I’m not about to waste my time rambling about obvious bullshit.

Instead, I’m going to tell you something else that will blow your fuckin’ mind. Yes. Another outrageous fact.

So, today is the eighth of February. It’s the eighth of February and it’s cold enough for me to definitively say that I’m freezing my goddamned ass off. Not that I can feel my ass, per se; but, if I could, it would be chopped off by now. Frostbite. Through and through frostbite.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it’s Monday. It’s Monday and Karkat’s in class. He’s actually in class all fuckin’ day. Doesn’t get out until damned near 6:00 P.M. Academic asshole.

It’s Monday, and it just so happens that not even the campus café is safe, because that’s where I catch the first sight of him in a long while. And by "him," I mean Cronus Ampora. He glares at me, brows furrowed in a way that’s indicative of an eagerness to kick my _completely innocent_ ass.

I, however, am not about to fight him. So, instead, I turn the fuck around and head for the door. Slow and steady might win the race; but, as far as I’m concerned, being the fuckin’ fast rabbit gets you out alive.

And it seemed that the plan was going well. At least, it was. And, then, I come to a sudden halt.

Now, I’ve got my fuckin’ rad aviator jacket on. Covered in patches. Karkat’s probably said a lot about them, right? The point is that I made them a while ago. Back when I was still in physical therapy and trying to get my shit together. Waking up to an entirely different existence ain’t exactly an easy thing to do. The real issue here is that I attached the smartass patches to the jacket. And, as if I'd somehow forgotten...

“You want to try and kick my ass, freak?”

I, in return, did the most natural thing I could do. I put on my best look of innocence and sit completely still as he turns me to face him. “No,” I say it in the sweetest voice I can muster. “No. I would _never_ do that to you. Or anyone. See, I can’t feel anything from mid-chest down and…”

Around here, he seems to deem it appropriate to cut me off. Too bad he’s not civil enough to say it. Instead, he grabs me by the shoulder.

Fortunately for me, he doesn’t seem to be able remember anything that happened that night. Probably too drunk to. But, still, it hurts like hell. It's the wrong shoulder, but it fuckin' hurts.

So, it’s only natural that my reaction was an extremely loud exclamation of “FUCK.” After all, he’s bending my arm in a way that it most definitely should not be going. And, if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s another shoulder surgery. Again, I put on the most innocent voice I can. “Please, dude, you really don’t want to beat me up in public. Y’know… Beating up the um… What do you call it? Um… OW. SHIT.”

“How about you shut the fuck up?”

“Okay.”

“Someone on your hall said you’re dating that f—g. You and the little Vantas bitch. Ain’t it damned cute? Two freaks together. Both about to crash and burn.”

“You’ve left me alone for this long, dude,” I protest, “Leave me alone for… like… a year?”

“No way, asshole.”

“Yes… Maybe? Way?” Sure, it’s not the smoothest I’ve ever been. But, on the opposite side, my shoulder’s practically screaming. And, seeing as I can only feel less than half of my body, I’ve come to know that portion pretty damned well. As it stands, I’m keenly aware of the fact that it’s going to be giving out real damned soon.

Then, there’s an interruption. A familiar voice causes the greaser wannabe to let go of me and shove me forwards. I end up sprawled out on the tiled floor of the commons area. When my head’s finally decided to stop spinning like a high-as-fuck ballerina, I get a glimpse of a familiar pair of oddly bright blue jeans. “John?”

A dorky snicker is the response. Someone grabs me by the shoulders and heaves me back into my chair.

If there’s one thing I can say about John Egbert, it’s that he’s surprisingly strong. That scrawny frame hides a lot of power.

“How the hell did you get him to stop?” I ask.

He laughs. “I’m dating one of his buddies. Vriska’s not that bad, you know. She’d kick his ass if she found out he hurt my best bro.”

I couldn’t help but sigh. “You could’ve come in a bit sooner, you fuckin’ dweeb.”

“Look, I thought Karkat said they’d locked you up in the dorm.”

“That’s called imprisoning the…” Oh. Of course. _Now_ I remember the word. “That’s imprisoning the disabled, and that is _frowned upon by most of society_ , John.” To emphasize my words, I jab at his chest.

He, however, isn’t about to take my usual shit. “Pretty sure it’s actually a trope, Dave.”

“It is. Something like bury your disabled. But that’s not my point. My point is that society generally doesn’t like when you do that. Makes you look like some sort of kinky-as-fuck hoarder, if you know what I mean.”

Again, John laughs. And the sound honestly makes my heart flutter. I’m head over heels for this nerd; but, I know it won’t happen. He’s just not interested. Beyond that, I’m perfectly aware of the fact that he and I wouldn’t mesh well. Sure, we can hang out for weeks. That’s in the best of situations, though. As much as I love him, I have to say that he’d never understand half of the shit I deal with every day. He is, after all, your standard, cis male. Made to order. Shipped all the way from across the country.

He’s a great guy; but, anything between us wouldn’t last. It’s break apart the minute I had another infection. Or the next time I landed myself in the hospital for something with a fifty-fifty chance of killing me. Again, I’ve got something to say about Egbert. For a cis male, he’s pretty damned emotional. Rose and Jade have told me he’s broken down on video chat more than once. Moaning and groaning about how afraid he was that I’d die.

Now, not to be all depressing, but I figure it’ll happen. At some point, it’ll happen. Everyone drops. I’ll probably drop before everyone else I know, though. Not that it matters. No, what matters is that this whole rambling lecture was for a point. And that point is that people worrying about me to that degree and showing it is… uncomfortable. It’s weird. I don’t worry about myself that much; or, at least, I stopped worrying that much a while ago. Probably after that one time I got a wound so infected the doctors were legitimately floored when I survived without immediate amputation.

That’s a very loose definition of ‘survive,’ of course. I don’t remember any of it and, according to what I’ve been told and what was going down when I woke up, it’s perfectly reasonable that I don’t. I was doped up on painkillers and antibiotics and on hardcore life support. The type that they jam down your throat, not the little prongs they put up your nose.

And I’m sure I had a perfectly good reason for this rant, but I’ve forgotten it, now, so…

Instead, how about a joke.

What do you get when you reunite me with Karkat as John tells them about the most recent events over dinner?

The answer is a flipped table.

Okay. So. Not a great joke. But, you get my drift, right? Of course.

Not that it goes over well. A flipped table apparently gets you kicked out of the dining hall. Not sure why.

Well, technically, they gently pushed me out. And the cafeteria worker ran back inside as soon as their hands left the back of my chair.

So, there we are. Three assholes sitting in a growing blanket of snow. There’s me, of course. Unlike the others, I’d stashed away a few handful of fries in my pockets. The others were just sad, starving little gnomes. Sitting in the snow. Gathering it like lawns unto themselves. I, however, am quite proud of my ingenuity. In fact, I take a great deal of enjoyment in eating my well-earned meal in front of my two friends.

To my surprise, Karkat speaks first. “You fucking asshole,” they comment, lunging for my pocket. Ultimately, though, they fail. I back up and they fall face-first into the snow.

When they’ve regathered their composure, however, I offer an innocent smile. “You flipped the table, loser.”

“You’re the loser,” Karkat responds, a strange grin working its way across their face.

And, only then do I realize that John’s managed to nab a handful of my fries. Presumably from the left pocket, seeing as it’s completely fucking empty. Well, that and the fact that it’s having a mild unexpected sensation party. Or, if you’re wanting to get all technical up in here, a spasm. ‘Unexpected sensation party’ is a lot less intimidating and more approachable, though.

Nonetheless, I’m quick to react. “You’ve betrayed me, John. This is like… Like… You’re like Lando, man. You’ve broken my fuckin’ heart. Broken it into fuckin’ pieces.”

“Jesus Christ. Here he goes,” Karkat grumbles, elbowing John in the side as they take a few fries from him.

I, in return, can’t help but snicker as I finish the last fry I had. “You’ve starved me, guys. It’s a legitimate Grave of the Fireflies going down right now.”

“Actually, Dave,” John mentions, grinning, “I cried at the end of that movie.”

“You bawled like a fuckin’ baby, Egbert,” I retort. “And I am hurt that you wouldn’t cry about my death from starvation. All because you took my dinner.”

“I’m sure John could fake some tears,” Karkat shrugs. Unlike John, they manage to keep a straight face. In fact, they have the audacity to take a bite of one of their French fries as they continue, saying, “I probably could, too. If I tried really, really fucking hard. Like. That would take a fucking ton of effort, though.”

I offer a facetious pout.

Both John and Karkat laugh; obviously, the latter has dropped their façade.

“I’m guessing we’re eating off campus today?”

Both nod.

I respond by flipping my brakes—or, again, technically, wheel locks—and nodding for them to follow. After all, I’m not a monster. Deep down, I’m a mildly decent person. At the very least, I’m not going to let my best friend and significant other starve to death. Even if one of the two has thrown me over for some tarantula-loving bitch.


	45. i swear to god hes not dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Harry in Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulO35bXAZi8)**  
>  Patrick Doyle  
>  ** _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously karkat is perfectly fine i did not kill him hes just being generous with the keyboard

Let’s get real for a minute.

I’ve never been the most coveted property. Beyond my parents and John, no one else has ever wanted me. Bro hated me and both foster families were getting compensation for my presence. Sure, I’ve got Rose and Jade, too. But they’re different. They knew me online. They knew me as turntechGodhead long before they knew me as Dave Strider, the asshole who holed himself in his room and get his useless ass handed to him on a bloodied silver platter every day.

For as long as I’ve had my own sense of self—which, basically, started in physical therapy—I’ve seen things as me against the world. Sure, I only got a few years of legitimate public school; but, even with the usual gang of John, Rose, and Jade, I was the odd one out.

Okay. Yes. There’s the obvious. But, it was more than that. There was this whole world out there. A world that Bro never let me see and that I’ll never get to see. A world where absolutely every single fuckin’ person I meet understands that I’m a person. A world that isn’t built for me. Sure, you’ve got those courtesy ramps and all. But, elevators ain’t exactly the norm in most residential places. Hell, I can’t take certain classes because they’re not authorized to build elevators in certain places.

It’s always been that way, and I’m the first to admit that I’ll play it off all the time. I’ll lie my way to hell and back; but, the world was never made for me.

As far as I’m concerned, no one has wanted me. Bro hated me and the foster families were being paid to put up with me. The second family might have showered me in gifts; but, I’m not stupid. It was all an elaborate game. Something to get me to say that they were good guardians. They were; but, they didn’t care about me that much. I haven’t heard from any of them since I moved out to some shitty, run-down apartment whose only accessible feature was the fact that I could get through the front door.

But, that’s all mushy, shitty, feely stuff. It’s bull. Nothing I give a damn about. And that might by why I’m where I am—in John’s room, pleasantly drunk. Beyond that, I _might_ have stolen some of Karkat’s cigarettes. I mean… Sure. I’m not supposed to smoke. My throat burns and it’s starting to get hard to breathe; but, it’s given me a nice little buzz.

As a disclaimer, though: Don’t smoke, kids. I’m an idiot and should _not_ be emulated.

Here’s the thing, though.

John’s been blabbering to me. Telling me all about the shit that Karkat’s said to him. After all, I’m not about to get drunk and not let my willing and consenting best bro join in. I brought enough for both of us. Shoved it all into a bag with a medical cross on it and, when questioned by two passerby, I said it was a set of medical braces. Not that I’ve ever used those; I’m supposed to, but… Whatever.

“Y’know,” he mutters, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling, “They ask me a lot about you. Texted me all over break about how to help you out and kept flipping their shit when you said the smallest thing against them.”

“You’re shitting me, Egbert,” I snicker. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing that’s come out of your fuckin’ mouth is true.”

“Nah. Nah,” he insists. He shoves my shoulder, causing me to fall into the wall against the side of the bed.

Though the action causes a pretty nice shock of pain that runs down my completely hosed spine, I don’t comment. I simply insist on _my_ point. “Fuckin’ loser.”

“They were in literal tears that one time they thought they hurt you.”

“Oh?” A snort of laughter escapes me. “And when was that?”

“What’s it called? Auto-something reflex?” John grumbles, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

“Who gives a fuck? It’s called ‘something that might kill me.’ Surprise, surprise. My life is like Australia. Everything wants to kill me.” I shrug. “Kark’s a grandiose asshole. Real dramatic dude.”

“They learned how to help you take a shit, Dave,” John groans. “Dude, they like you. They’re ready to have your goddamned babies.”

“Look,” I snap, “They’re a friend. Good, great, fuckin’ wonderful friend. Like you.”

“Karkat bought you a new chain for your little neck… thing,” John sighs. “You’re… God. You’re so clueless.”

“I’m realistic.” To emphasize this, I crack open a new can of beer. I cough and manage to squeeze out a few breaths. By all logic, that cigarette was an awful idea. “No one would date me. _I_ wouldn’t date me. Look at me, dude. I’m three handfuls of maintenance. Emotional trauma. Physical trauma. Catastrophic injury. The ever-looming threat of another—”

“Woah.” John frowns. Suddenly, he sounds surprisingly sober. “You’ve never told me about the last thing.”

“Don’t need to, either,” I shrug.

John stares at me. Expectantly. Intensely.

And, being the pissbaby I am, I give in quickly. “Clots. There’s this teeny, tiny… Oh. It’s just so small. Smaller than… than… Smaller than a shrimp’s penis. Point is, it’s real small. But, one could _theoretically_ travel up and knock out more limbs. Or functions. Or just kill me. Ain’t that a global problem, though?”

A long, disgruntled sigh escapes John. “Whatever.” He’s back to being drunk. His words are slurring together. He’s blissfully unaware of the fact that I’m running my fingers through his hair. It’s not my fault that it’s so damned soft, after all. “You like ‘em, don’t you?”

“What?” I pause. It occurs to me that John tends to be a rather lucid drunk. Sure, he’s more giggly and goofy; but, he’s pretty damned straight about it. Well… He’s straight about everything. “I… I do…” As much as I hate to admit it, I have to. He’s my best bro. What am I going to do? Lie to him? Dodge a question he’ll keep asking me until I fuckin’ marry the asshole _or_ die? “I’m fuckin’ wild for that jackass. And I hate it.”

“They’re worried about you, dude.”

I respond with a snort of laughter. “About what?”

“A lot of things.” John shrugs. “Dave… You need to talk to someone. And if it’s not me…”

“No way I’m talking to them about it,” I snap.

“Your choice, Dave,” John mutters, taking another sip of his beer. “By the way, Keystone’s shit.”

“I’m a broke, orphaned college student. What do you think I’m going to get?” I retort. “But… Do you really think they like me?”

“If Karkat didn’t like you,” John snickers, “They wouldn’t still be your roommate. They’ve got Cronus being investigated for assault.”

I nearly choke on my beer. “They’re… WHAT!?”

“Oh. Man. They’re beyond furious.”

“About their assault or…?”

“Yours.” John’s grinning at me—that sort of knowing smile people give you when they know something you don’t. “They’re all about you, dude.” He pats me on the back and winks. “Go get ‘em, Strider.”


	46. "LET'S ALL TALK ABOUT FEELINGS."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Sarajevo**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHioIlbnS_A)  
>  Trans-Siberian Orchestra, 2007
> 
> yes it's a christmas song and i'm posting this in june fuckin sue me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE EMOTIONS. EMOTIONS ARE BULLSHIT. LET'S JUST GET RID OF THEM. FUCK FEELINGS.

You’re really not sure why you tagged along. Honestly, you’re not all that invested in the game. Still, the shit that goes down when the game isn’t in session is pretty interesting. For instance, right now, Sollux has taken to picking what looks to be bits of honey-covered bread from his teeth. ( _According to rumors, his real name is Alexander. Terezi is a childhood friend of Dave's who just happens to be legally named Theresa._ ) Jade and Feferi are… somewhere. You’re not sure what happened to them; you just know that they went outside to ‘get fresh air.’

“So, you and Dave are going out?” Based on context, you assume Terezi is talking to you. Beyond that, Dave is pretty busy trying to sculpt the world’s most disgusting unicorn out of his own chewed gum. He _is_ doing a decent job, though…

“We’ve been dating for a while, Terezi,” you mutter. “It’s not exactly breaking news.”

Perhaps he’s lost some interest in his work, because Dave offers to back you up. “Yeah. The two school losers have been together forever.”

Terezi responds with a snort of laughter. She slams her fist against the table, offsetting her shades by a few inches, revealing cloudy, sky blue eyes. However, she quickly rights the problem. You note that she has an odd way of doing it, though. She reaches up and straightens it with a singular, upright thumb. “You? A loser? Nice one, Dave.”

“I…” he pauses and shrugs. By now, it’s obvious that he’s no longer invested in his gummy sculpture; and, as if to further clarify this, he sticks the wad to the bottom of the table. When he’s finished this, he taps his fingers against the table. “I don’t know. Am I really that big on campus, TZ?”

“Oh, yeah,” Terezi cackles. “Dude, your name is pretty well known.”

“I’m all of no more than five people on campus with an obvious so-called ‘problem’ with me.” Though the comment is obviously serious, Dave punctuates it with a very Strider-esque sense of sarcasm.

The answer provided by Terezi is just as insincere. “Never noticed.”

“I’ll run you over and remind you.” Dave offers a small grin. His quirked brow peeks over the rim of his shades—sort of like a helpful next door neighbor in a 90’s sitcom starring Tim Allen.

To this—or, at least, in response to Dave’s verbal reply—Terezi smirks.

You interrupt. “I’m pretty sure that running over the DM is going to fuck over the game.”

“They’ve got you there, Dave.”

“Yeah?” He rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively. “Look… I…” He winces. Grunts. His body moves in a way that’s indicative of his leg shaking.

“Both of you, together, are fucking adorable,” announces Terezi.

To your surprise, Sollux pitches in his two cents. “Actually, I hate to agree. But I agree.”

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Dave responds by elbowing you in the side. “Can’t deny TZ Harmony. Like E-Harmony. But cooler.”

Everyone in the room laughs.

You notice, however, that Dave seems… less… He’s less Davey. You can say it that way. There’s something off about him, and you’re willing to bet you know what it is. So, as discretely as possible, you pull him aside; or, at least, you try to. “Strider?”

He jumps, as if he's forgotten that you’re in the room, and tries to play it off with an unconvincingly indifferent huff.

Being who you are, you ignore this. “You up for a quick walk around? It’ll pass some time until Jade and Feferi stop… um… Whatever the fuck they’re doing.”

Naturally, Dave shrugs. Instead of providing a solid answer, he does some sort of pseudo-charades thing. He flicks the wheel locks off, on, and back off; and, to top it all off, he shrugs in the most infuriatingly and characteristically enigmatic way possible. You take it as a yes.

Under this assumption, you head out of the room.

By the sound of it—the distinctive rattling of a footplate that he _really_ needs to fix—he follows.

( _Really, though, it can’t be that hard. It’s not that fucking hard. Take a screwdriver and tighten the screws holding the footplate in place. What is so fucking problematic about that? He keeps complaining about how loud he is; so, why not take that tiny step to fix it? It’s too logical, probably._ )

 

* * *

You figure Jade and Feferi might be a while. Terezi’s agreed to text when they return and, for now, you’re seeking a good spot to set up the metaphorical Talking Tent—a space that’s quiet, isolated, and empty enough for Dave to feel like he’s having some one-on-one time. It’s a strategy that Rose recently suggested; and, in accordance with it, you don’t speak until you reach it.

Today, it’s about six minutes off campus. In the neighborhood, there’s this little craftsman style house that’s been abandoned and on sale for a while. The home comes complete with a tall wooden fence and, through methods you’re not exactly sure you want to know of, Vriska figured out the gate was always unlocked. In fact, she’d informed you of this a while ago. Claimed it was a favor for a future favor. ( _When you asked for quiet, isolated spots, she may have been a bit confused about your motives. And you probably should have clarified those; but, it’s too late now._ )

The yard is pretty overgrown. In fact, if it wasn’t for a sunken concrete ‘porch,’ you’re not sure if it would have ever worked. But, something decided to give you a break and a meeting space.

“So, Strider, what the fuck’s gnawing at your shriveled, dead heart?”

Dave shrugs. He pulls from the bag, which he hangs on the backrest of his wheelchair, a bottle of water. After downing nearly half of the thing in a few gulps, he pauses. He wipes away the excess moisture on his lips with the sleeve of his red sweater. ( _Apparently, Rose sent it to him for Christmas two years ago. Hand-knitted. Llama wool thread._ ) “I… don’t actually know…” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

You roll your eyes. You understand where he’s coming from; but, it’s still annoying. How are you supposed to do anything if he knows as much as you—specifically, jack shit? You sigh and pull an unopened pack of cigarettes from your pocket. As you light it, you speak out of the corner of your mouth. Obviously, it’s the corner opposite the position of the cigarette. “Haven’t been acting very Strider-y lately, asshole. Something up?”

( _Smoking isn’t a habit of yours. Honestly. It’s not. You only do it from time to time._ )

Another shrug. As the smoke passes by him, Dave coughs; but, he doesn’t tell you to stop. Rather, he tilts himself onto the back wheels of his chair and rocks back and forth for a few moments. Presumably, he’s thinking. “You are. Technically.” He attempts to back this up with a smile, though it’s easy to tell that it’s fake.

You push him more. Gently, though. You’re trying to help him and understand him better, not pressure him into some sort of emotional breakdown. “M’kay. Don’t want to fucking talk about it,” is how you begin this. ( _Change the topic without truly changing the conversation’s course._ ) “How about we just… talk? One asshole to another asshole. Man-to-man is probably the more fucking unnecessarily masculine way you’d put it.”

“That sounds better.” After covering his mouth, Dave coughs a few more times. None of these coughs actually seem to help, though. When he speaks, his voice has that distinctive strain—the type of mild whine that comes when someone hasn't fully cleared their lungs. “What about, Kark?”

He’s yet to look at you today. That realization hits you like a brick.

You shake the shock off. Clear your throat. “Tell me about yourself, Strider.”

“Well,” Dave begins. However, he’s cut off by another fit of coughs. This round prompts you to douse your cigarette in the snow beneath your feet, much to his visible annoyance. “First of all,” he says, once the coughing has subsided, “You didn’t need to do that. But. Um. I was born in a log apartment in the wilderness of central NYC. I tried to build an extension, but my parents died and, apparently, you’re not legally allowed to do that in a penthouse apartment. So, I decided to become a world-class pole vaulter. Unfortunately, ‘having working legs’ happened to be a requirement on the application and…”

( _Jesus fucking Christ._ )

Though you often try to avoid interrupting, you’re actually glad to do so, in this case. “You’re pulling all of this from your ass, Strider.”

He grins. This time, it’s real; but, it’s still not him. “You didn’t say it had to be true.”

“Fuck you.” Sighing, you figure that the best option is to try and be more specific. You run your fingers through your hair as you think, and, after a few moments, you propose another topic. “When you dream, do you…?”

As you expected, he cuts you off. However, against your expectations, his response is thick with annoyance. If you really think about it—and, seeing how long he ends up going on for, you have the time to—you notice a bit of wariness. “Do I dream that I’m still able to walk?” He frowns. The lines of his forehead indicate that he’s furrowing his brows. “Sometimes. I…” A brief pause. You have the feeling that he’s not looking at you—that he’s staring at his lap. “Rose says it has to do with how I perceive myself. Whether I’m comfortable with myself or not.”

You open your mouth to speak.

He, however, cuts you off, continuing, “Early on, yeah. I'd get myself hyped up and end up waking up depressed as fuck. Happened up until I was twelve, definitely. If Rose is right, it’s because that’s when I realized that I’m not going back. Guess I also figured I didn’t want to go back.”

“Go back?” Against your personal morals, you, too, look away. Your stomach churns awkwardly. While you’ve been dating him for a while and you’re undeniably head-over-heels for him, this conversation is rubbing you the wrong way. You feel like you’re getting into matters that aren’t yours to investigate.

Dave answers you, though; and, that comforts you. If he’s willing to talk about it, then it must not be taboo. Still, his voice is tense. He seems to be picking his words with care. “To _normal_ ,” the word escapes him with a defined edge of disgust. He spits it out, like venom. As if this isn’t clear enough, though, he adds air quotes. He makes sure to demonstrate his disdain for the concept. ( _Not that he needs to tell you twice. You’re dating the guy._ )

“You could, theoretically…” You lean over and pluck your now-dead cigarette from the snow. After eyeing it over, you stick it back into your mouth. Due to Dave’s coughing, you avoid lighting it.

Dave, meanwhile, offers a critical snort of laughter. “I’m what’s known as a complete injury, dude.” As if it will clarify his point, Dave straightens his left index finger and draws a line halfway across its width with his other hand. “Exactly what it sounds like, really. You cut something halfway, and you can still kind of use it.” Now, he draws a line which spans the full width. “Cut the dotted line completely, though, and you lose whatever was left.”

“Oh.” In your head, you sound small. Insignificant. Ignorant.

And it seems that Dave doesn’t notice. “I’m a complete injury. Any movement below the dotted line is involuntary. You probably knew that much already, though.”

You nod.

Dave sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a problem with… anything, really… I…” He breathes in and, then, shakily breathes out. “Do you like me?”

You sigh. Your gut instinct is to say something sarcastic. ‘No, I’m dating you out of spite.’ But, you know that’s not what Dave needs right now. So, after some thought, you provide a more sincere answer. It’s not something that you’re hardwired to do, though. It’s awkward, slow, and forced. “Yeah. I do. I like you a lot, Strider. Feelings are fucking mutual, right?”

“Yup.” Dave pulls off his gloves and studies his rough, calloused palms. “I just don’t know if I should encourage this. I mean…”

Around now, your phone buzzes. While part of you hopes that Dave won’t notice it, you know he will.

And, sure enough, he offers you an odd, inexplicable smile. “I don’t know, Kark. Let me sort this out alone. If I can’t, I’ll come to you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(a.) please don't sue me i'm a broke college student and (b.) comments, feedback, and concerns are always welcome and appreciated. thanks for reading!**


	47. "YES. THAT'S A PROJECTOR."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Surprise Symphony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVXalu0p1wo)**  
>  Joseph Hadyn (1791)
> 
>  
> 
> **for a visual of karkat's first floor...[click here](https://66.media.tumblr.com/493b81ae03731a1de4ca8a0fe5cbd95d/tumblr_o85us7FzhL1qm180qo1_1280.png)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU'VE SEEN ONE BEFORE, RIGHT? THEY PROJECT THINGS. HENCE THE FUCKING NAME. WE WATCH MOVIES AND PLAY GAMES ON IT.

“You’re actually letting me come over to your house this weekend?” Dave asks you this question for the umpteenth time. Nonetheless, the excitement in his voice hasn’t diminished a bit, despite his efforts to hide it.

“Yes. Jesus Christ, dude, how many times do I need to—?”

He interrupts your response with a small smile. He twiddles his thumbs as he speaks. In a way, he looks like a guilty child. The kid who took cookies from the jar and has crumbs all over his stupidly cute face, yet continues to claim absolute innocence. “Sorry, dude. I just… I’ve never been invited to someone else’s house before. No one ever thought of it before, I guess…”

“Or,” you propose, “They were trying to avoid having to deal with an excited jackass.”

Dave laughs nervously. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand and taps against the top of his ugly, red paisley carpet bag with the other. ( _Knowing him, he picked the ugliest bag he owned just to annoy you. Somehow, you feel like you should be flattered._ ) “So… Your house isn’t one of those huge mansions, right? The ones with the winding staircases? I mean… No offense if it is. They’re real damned nice to look at; but, that’s about all I’m going to do with ‘em.”

“I’ve lived in that house for nineteen years, Dave,” you sigh. “It has two floors, but the top one doesn’t matter. My room and the guest bedroom are both on the first floor.” As a cold wind blows through, you bury your hands in your pockets. You watch as your breath hits the cold air and rises, like smoke, from your mouth. “If you’re that fucking set on getting there, though, we’ve got a big dumbwaiter for laundry. I can shove you in there and stick you between floors, so I don’t have to put up with you.”

A huff of false offense escapes Dave. “That’s not playing nicely, Kark.”

“Whatever.” You shrug, and make no attempt to hide your smirk. “Look, all you have to do is ignore my fuckwit of a brother and—” You stop. Your eyes lock on a pure white SUV. The exact same type that your brother drives. Your blood runs as cold as the snow that’s falling around you. “Fuck.”

“I thought you said your parents had a sports car?” Dave mutters.

“They do,” you groan. As the car stops in front of you, the knot in your stomach tightens. ( _If it tightens any more, surgical intervention might be needed._ ) The passenger side window rolls down and, to your horror, Kankri just so happens to be the one driving. Not that this is shocking; it's just terrifying.

His dark brown eyes scan over you, first. Then, he proceeds to blatantly scrutinize Dave. “So, you really _are_ permanently handicapped?”

Dave frowns.

You lean in, close to him, and whisper, “Kankri came to get us for some reason. Just roll with it and ignore anything he says.”

“Got it,” he murmurs to you. Then, after you’ve opened the back door, he begins to pull himself into the vehicle. He’s obviously uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he plays it off with the sarcastic grace, that you’ve come to expect of him. “Nope. I’m faking it. I’ve got two working legs and I’ll get up right now to do a dance for you. And you can sue me for the parking permit license plate being a fraud, too.”

Kankri nods slowly. You derive a great deal of delight from his uncertainty. “You… Okay. Well, David, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Karkat’s brother, Kankri.”

By now, Dave has gotten himself settled in the seat. There’s a row of three more seats behind you, so there’s an aisle space between you and Dave. Naturally, he has dumped the disassembled parts of his chair in this space.

“So…” You speak up. Right now, your goal is to distract Kankri from his usual verbal bullshit. He means well… maybe. But, he’s the most patronizing person you know. “Kankri…”

“I’m assuming that you were being sarcastic, Dave,” your brother interrupts.

Dave offers a disinterest sigh. “Yup.”

“Can I then assume that you’re wheelchair bound?”

“KANKRI,” you snap.

Dave shushes you with a nonchalant shrug. “I fuckin’ hate that phrase but, technically, yes. Theoretically, no. My ass is not superglued to my goddamned chair.”

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Before he replies, a wide grin spreads across Dave’s face. It’s obvious that he’s about to enjoy the results of his next response. “My mother’s dead, actually. Car crash. My dad died on impact; my mother died two hours later. So, no.”

“Oh.” In the rearview mirror, you can see Kankri frowning.

You, admittedly, also enjoy the reaction. It’s what he had coming to him, after all. And, as a bonus, it seems to have shut him up.

“You said you had pets, Kark?”

“Hm?” It takes a moment for you to realize that Dave is talking to you; but, when you do, you nod. “Dog. Big one. Name’s Crosby.”

“As in… Bing Crosby?” Dave snickers.

You nod reluctantly. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

To the relief of both you and Dave, Kankri remains silent for the rest of the two hour drive.

Upon arriving, you immediately show Dave to your room. Down the huge, tiled entryway and into the living room. To its right is your bedroom.

It’s supposed to be the guest room. Compared to the other rooms, it’s tiny. But, it fits a double bed and all the necessary furniture. If you face forward, from the foot of the bed, there are two doors. Both lead to rooms of an equal size; the one on the left is your closet. To your right is the bathroom.

The walls are painted a solid, dark red. Vintage advertisements for old photographers and long-dead businesses adorn them. A wall shelf above your bed is stocked with books and decorations. Other shelves also hold books and trinkets; but, only your prized possessions are above the bed.

If the slack-jawed, wide-eyed look of shock on Dave’s face is worth anything, he’s pretty impressed. Of all the things in your room, though, he seems to take the most interest in an old, beaten-up sugar skull.

Now, you’ve only held onto the thing out for nostalgia. It’s pure white, though the embellishments are done in gold, red, pink, and light blue. You received it as a gift from your paternal grandmother before she died. Roughly ten years ago. Apparently, one of your three unknown uncles made it. ( _Your father has always evaded any questions regarding his brothers. You’ve started to believe that they might be dead or missing. You’re not all that concerned, though. For all you know, it was a family feud of sorts. Not that you care the reason for the enigma that is their existence._ ) The reason you kept it, though, was because of the person who gave it to you.

“Neato,” Dave comments.

His voice pulls you back into reality and, after a brief pause to regather yourself, you respond. “Did you just call something ‘neato’?”

To this, Dave offers a shrug. After backing away from the shelf, on which the sugar skull is displayed, he pushes off of the end of your bed. With a characteristic ease, he propels himself towards the neater half. Obviously, the other half of the bed—the part that’s unmade—is where you sleep. “I could’ve said ‘coolio’ or something like that,” he goads.

“How about you don’t act like a bigger dork than you already are?” you grumble, rolling your eyes. Somehow, you manage to keep a straight face; but, deep down, you’re pretty damned amused by Dave’s usual antics. “You like the room? Think it’s fucking amazing?”

“Not as amazing as you are.” Dave’s response is thick with excessive sweetness. His smirk belays the mostly insincere nature of the comment. “Really, though, it’s cool.” As he finishes this, he chews on his lip.

For the first time, you realize how outlandishly tall your bed is. In fact, it comes up to just below his armpits. “Oh. Shit.”

“Nah,” he waves dismissively, “You’re good. I’ll just…” Through some convoluted means that you don’t really have the attention span to observe, he manages to pull himself onto your bed. It takes a few minutes. The time it takes doesn’t seem to bother him much; and, when he’s situated, he leans against the grey pillows at the head of your bed. He folds his hands behind his head and breathes a satisfied sigh. “This is pretty comfortable, actually.”

“The bed?”

“Not too sure about the bed, but this pillow is fuckin’ great.”

“Hmph.” Despite your best efforts, you can’t help but smile. “So… What was your apartment like?”

“In Texas?”

“Fuck that one,” you grumble. “No, I mean… The one you owned.”

Dave frowns. He sets aside his shades, placing them on the outer edge of the mattress. His eyes are closed, and you can only assume he’s trying to visualize the space. “Real fuckin’ tiny,” he recalls. “Furniture came with it. One person table and a single bed. The bedroom had a shitty set of drawers and all that…”

You sit back and listen.

 

* * *

 

**DAVE STRIDER, a twenty-year-old man with a taste for Coca-Cola products and salt and vinegar chips, sits in his usual spot. Off screen, KARKAT sits cross-legged on their bed. Their duty is to parse the incoming messages.**

**Taking advantage of the expensive and reliable internet connection KARKAT’s family has, Dave has talked them into helping him do a livestream.**

**The stream began about twenty minutes ago. KARKAT has been filtering the questions, while Dave babbles aimlessly. By now, they’ve prepared a handful of questions to ask. All of them have been compared against Dave’s criteria.**

**Not that he’s being picky. Rather, he’s being reasonable. The guidelines are surprisingly open-ended. The only explicitly banned topics are those pertaining to medical issues and bowel management. They** **send the few questions they’ve prepared questions to him. These were all selected on the basis of who asked first and whose question was more coherent. He answers these as KARKAT returns to scanning through the stream of comments.**  

> DAVE  
>  Question one is… Hm… What sort of things do I do in my free time? Well, besides hanging out with Kark, who’s managing the questions, I’ve always liked to do art. I consider myself primarily musical; but, I also dabble in visual art. Mostly sketching. Some sculpting. I’ll admit to embroidering to embrace my so-called “feminine side.” Nah. That’s a joke. I just like embroidery. You’ve seen the patches on my bomber jacket. If not, watch some older videos.

**He pauses and rubs his chin. His fingers tap thoughtfully against the rubber wheels of his chair. DAVE adjusts his shades and clears his throat.**

> DAVE  
>  I’m not really sure if there’s anything else…
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Does being a jackass count as a hobby?
> 
> DAVE  
>  Ahem. _Ignoring that._ Question two’s… Oh. Wow. That’s. Holy shit. I’m really flattered that you’re so fuckin’ generous, anonymous commenter, but…

**Off screen, KARKAT glances at DAVE. While the former has no way of knowing it, the pair make eye contact.**

> DAVE  
>  I’m not actually that keen on walking again. And, again, I don’t speak for everyone. I’m a pretty lucky guy; a few inches up could’ve been a different outcome. But, as it is now, I’m pretty fuckin’ cozy with things. I’m independent and shit. Sure, stairs are a fuckin’ hassle, but… I really, really appreciate the offer, though. If you want to donate, though, I’m still paying for the shoulder surgery.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Three is… God fucking dammit, butthole666 is back. Everyone give it up for my biggest fan, butthole666. Please. Change your fuckin' username. Admittedly, your question, dude, is really great. It’s pretty complicated, though, so… I’ll make a new video for it. Now, though, let’s get some of my opinions out of the way. Some people like things like “differently-abled” and so on. I, personally, hate it. Think it’s cutesy. Bumps the community down to something more taboo and encourages coddling, I guess. Um… Definitely, though, quit painting shit as tragic.

**Though KARKAT is offering a raised brow, DAVE continues. It seems as if he’s determined to get this question answered as fully as he possibly can. Not that it’s an issue; there isn’t really that much interest in the stream. Statistics point to an absolute _maximum_ of fifty current viewers.**

> DAVE  
>  Here’s how I think of it. Yeah, SCI’s mildly inconvenient. And getting over it is fuckin’ hard. I didn’t have it, and I was royally fucked over for a while because of that, but it takes support. Friends and family and a whole lot of guts. It’s not something that, as far as I know, everyone could do. And…

**Behind his shades, DAVE’s eyes drift to the chat box. He scans the newest comment and sighs.**  

> DAVE  
>  I’m speaking only for me and, obviously, I’m not the spokesperson for all people. And I’m coming from a perspective of having earlier experience as an able-bodied person. So, last commenter is… I see where you’re coming from. But… What was I saying initially?
> 
> KARKAT  
>  Something about tragedy…
> 
> DAVE  
>  Thanks, Kark. Yeah. That’s a solid. If y’all take one thing away from this video, it should be this: stop making shit out to be the end of the world. Yeah, at the time, it was devastating. I was upset. I still get upset. Fuckin pissed at times, too. But it’s something that a lot of people move on about. And it’s really annoying to see news shitting out these sob stories about… Shit. This is getting long. Let’s sum it up this way: I, and a whole lot of others that I know from forums, aren’t wheelchair _bound_. Actually, my wheelchair is liberating. To me, it’s a symbol of freedom. And… This is so, so long. Too fuckin’ deep for one video so…

**Now, the video shifts gears. DAVE folds his arms across his chest. Just as he does this, his leg bounces. He winces and offers a quiet, barely audible grunt of discomfort. Out of the camera’s view, KARKAT moves to help. DAVE shakes his head.**

> DAVE  
>  What’s the most frustrating thing I have to deal with every day? That’s… Um… That’s number four. Well… Except for kids and people who just seem genuinely curious, I’m not all that big on questions. I’m friends with a few people online who are more than happy to. Um… Rufioh, one of my forum buddies, is someone who’s like that. I answer to encourage it, or, mainly, to encourage education. I’m more than happy to educate people. Kids are pretty fun to talk to, actually. They’re all so fuckin’ curious about it. And it’s in the most innocent way. But… People who are asking to gawk… That’s… questionable. Iffy. Hate that.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Six… Oh. Aw, fuck. This is a hard one. I’m a big fan of burgers… Plain, flat-out cheeseburgers are my favorites. Lettuce and tomatoes are okay, I guess. But, I’ll take hot dogs, too. And… um… I really love food, actually. Food is great.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Shout out to my significant other for their work. You’re rocking it, dude. We’re up to seven. I’ll make a few videos about how I drive, sure. Obviously, I’m not about to drive and vlog, though. Drunk driving killed my parents, so I'm not about to do anything like that. Probably just demonstrate in an empty field; there’s a fuckin’ assload of those around here.
> 
> DAVE  
>  Eight. No. I don’t…

**Now, DAVE hesitates. Behind his shades, his brows furrow. He chews on his lip.**

> DAVE  
>  I don’t have any family. Left. Right now. And…

**There’s a muffled noise from somewhere nearby. It’s obviously someone speaking, but the words are unclear. KARKAT and DAVE exchange a brief glance.**

> DAVE  
>  According to Kark’s parents, we’re due for bed. Even though we’re legal adults. But. Whatever. So, I’ll see you later. Keep sending questions, though. And I’ll answer the ones I’m DTA. Down to answer.
> 
> KARKAT  
>  That joke sucked, asshole.
> 
> DAVE  
>  My significant other is an asshole, by the way. If you didn’t notice. Catch y’all next time. This is Dave Strider, signing off.


	48. "NOT EVEN THE DOG?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Welcome to the Latin Quarter**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRBCWfkxwOU)  
>  Satoshi Takebe (2011)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT EVEN THE DOG WANTS THE HANG OUT WITH ME. WELL FUCK YOU, DOG. I DON'T NEED YOU, EITHER.

Outside, hidden in your garage, there’s what you refer to as the Fencing Corner. It’s a space, which uses bright yellow on the floor to define the valid fighting area, where the walls are lined with equipment. There’s enough for four players at once. That includes the swords. In total, there are six. Two of each type.

Right now, Dave has taken interest in the saber. He examines it closely, eyeing the blade with a look akin to an appraiser. From the way he’s holding the blade, you’re guessing he’s left-handed. “You fence?”

“I sell illegal, stolen goods, yeah,” you reply sarcastically.

He, in return, shrugs. “No, really. _You_? Fencing?” A snort of laughter escapes him as he backs away a bit. “ _You_?”

“One of my anger management things was finding a sport to take shit out on. As a kid, what’s better than hacking and slashing at some anonymous, masked asshole?” You smirk and fold your arms across your chest. Though you know that Dave probably has you pinned in any sort of swordsmanship, you hold yourself with an air of rapidly synthesized confidence. ( _After all, you won the bronze medal at your fencing club. You’re not that bad. You’re just shabby and out of practice._ )

Dave takes the bait. A haughty laugh escapes him. “You think you can beat me, Kark?”

“Well, Strider…” Right now, you’re just trying to rile him up. You’re curious. Rose and Dave have both said that Bro would spar with him; so, then, what sort of things did he learn? ( _Not that he learned real fencing. If anything, he’s learned a more unorthodox, practical form of sword fighting._ ) “Not to throw a low blow, but, to throw a low blow… I have the advantage of height.”

“That would be a tall blow,” quips Dave, his left brow shooting upwards, until it’s visible above the wall of his lenses. “Not that it matters. I can kick your ass quicker than Amelia Earhart disappeared.”

“Could you? Or would you crash and burn?” You grin.

Through Dave’s thin smile, you can see a keen sense of competitiveness. He pushes forward, keeping the blade behind him, until the footrest bumps gently against your shins. Leaning in, towards you, his smile grows. “You want to try going against me, Kark? Come and fuckin’ get it.”

“Fine.” You shrug. “You want any equipment or…?”

Dave frowns. He eyes the protective gear, and ends up taking only a glove for his right hand. He then parks himself in the appropriate position. As he waits for you, he swings the blade around.

“You’re a righty?” you inquire as you get prepared.

“No,” he admits, shrugging, “But I figure it’s better to move with my stronger side.”

“Really?” You put on your helmet and turn to face him. “So, what? Any rules?”

“Rules are bullshit,” he declares before moving quickly. He’s fast enough for your eye to have to wander to try and find him. And, when you do, it’s too late. The edge of his blade is pressed against your armored torso.

From your angle, you can see that his brows are raised in an expression of satisfaction. He’s balanced at a steep angle, his upper body tilted forwards. He holds himself in place with his right forearm, pushing against his knees. “Did you try, or are you going easy on me?”

You, after a good deal of confused staring, manage to sputter an answer, “I… Shit. I didn’t even say I was ready, asshole.” You back up a few steps, prepare yourself, and nod. This time, with your eyes focused on him, you at least get to _see_ his movement. He seems to instinctually back up before charging towards you, ducking and dodging as you swing. A powerful jab in the gut follows. Looking down, you see the sword’s tip pressed against you. Again, he wins. “I’m calling fucking witchcraft on you, Strider.”

“I’m calling some fuckin’ slow reflexes on you, Kark,” he counters, smugly. To your surprise, he withdraws; then, he aims a swipe at your right side.

You parry it at the same time that you jump back. Just as soon as this is finished, you find yourself blocking a rapid jab at your chest. To do this, you simply flick your wrist, moving it in a small, swift, clockwise circle. The two blades make contact; yours pushes Dave’s out of the way. “Holy shit.”

“I told you, Kark,” he smirks.

You scuttle backwards, narrowly avoiding a rapid riposte. “Fucking—”

Dave clicks his tongue.

You find the blade about a centimeter away from your covered neck. If this was a real sword fight, you’d be headless. You’d be bidding a fond farewell to your head as it rolled like a dodgeball down a hill. “Have to hand it to you, Strider, you’re a better swordsman.”

“Oh.” Dave snickers. Despite this display of aggression, he still offers a wide and, somehow, semi-innocent smile. “I already knew that, dude.”

“So… That’s why you didn’t wear armor?”

There’s a brief pause. It ends when Dave shrugs. “I’m just used to it that way.”

The implications of this sink in. When you take another moment to consider his words, it also occurs to you that he’s mentioned it before; he admitted where his scars had come from. You swallow your discomfort and offer him a roll of your eyes in reply. “Whatever. If I’m right, Dad’s bringing home some fancy steak tonight.”

“Well, then, sign me the fuck up,” Dave says. Of all of the reactions you’ve seen to telling a friend that you’re getting fancy meat for dinner, his is the most excited. From your angle, you can see the undeniable glint in his eye—a shine that tells you that, when it comes down to the last steak, he’ll probably fight you for it.

By the time these thoughts have passed through your mind, though, he’s already a good two yards away. And, not to your surprise, your dog is in hot pursuit.

( _Crosby likes your boyfriend more than he likes you. Surely, you can handle if you’re the lesser sibling, but being thrown over by the dog… That’s a bit much. That’s a real knife to the heart._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anything you'd like to see happen? suggestions are always open. no one is getting in the robot, tho.


	49. "WHO THE FUCK MENTIONED THE THING?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Bubak and Hungaricus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvWF6XbHJJE)**  
>  i literally know zippo about this song. where did it come from where did it go listen to that mouth harp, tho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ISN'T THIS SUPPOSED TO BE A CLUB ABOUT... FUCK. WHAT IS THIS FUCKPEN OF A CLUB EVEN FOR? I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE, BECAUSE IT'S CURRENTLY FILLED WITH AN ASSLOAD OF PEOPLE SCREAMING ABOUT GHIBLI MOVIES. IS THIS EVEN A CLUB? DID THE SCHOOL APPROVE THIS? CAN I IMPEACH THE CLUB PRESIDENT? OH. WAIT. FUCK. THE CLUB PRESIDENT IS MY BOYFRIEND? WELL. THAT'S JUST FUCKING GREAT. CALL ME WHEN THIS IS OVER; I'LL BE HIDING IN A HOLE IN THE GROUND.

Honestly, you’re not sure how it’s a thing. It’s not as if he’s a student anymore. Or… You don’t _think_ he’s a student. Whatever the case is, Dave’s not taking any classes right now. Nonetheless, you suppose the school felt a need to keep him around.

Having his club on campus certainly boosts the school’s reputation. If the various rumors—and, of course, the praises being sung on the school’s news site—are worth anything, it’s the first of its kind on campus. It’s also what you might consider to be the smallest gathering of people you’ve ever seen in your life. At least, that's as far as college campus gatherings go.

Yes. You’re here. He talked you into showing up at his club.

You’d helped him come up with a plan to create it over the summer and, honestly, you didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. But, he has. Apparently, he even got it approved over break by sending the application to a buddy of his, who just so happens to work in the campus life offices.

DAASC. You’ve heard him discuss the idea with Terezi. Being Terezi, though, she’s concocted her own version of the club’s acronym—“D, A squared,” and what is phonetically similar to the word ‘sick.’ Dave, for perhaps the first time in his entire life, has a more down-to-earth version of the acronym. It’s a nonsensical word, of course; it’s something akin to the word ‘desk,’ albeit with the ‘E’ replaced by an ‘ah’ sound. ( _It sounds almost British. And you’ve been sure to point that out, much to his mixed annoyance and approval._ )

Pointless acronym pronunciations aside, the full name of the club is the Disability Advocacy Alliance and Support Club. This is, of course, a fucking mouthful, hence the abbreviation.

Dave billed it as an organization to promote student welfare and equality. Rose, however, suggested that he formed the club out of a need to be part of a larger community. While anyone was invited to attend the first meeting, the actual attendance is… sparse.

There’s Terezi and Dave, obviously. ( _The President and Vice President of the club, respectively._ ) Beyond this, there’s only a handful of others, and you know all of them. In one corner is the campus’ infamous stoner clown. Sollux is here involuntarily, having been dragged along by Terezi. There’s someone you know as Aradia, though you don’t know her personally. John, obviously a casualty of Vriska’s questionable persuasive abilities, is sitting to your left. To your right is the Spider Bitch Queen, herself.

For such a supposedly highbrow and serious club, however, the current conversation is little more than the strange utterances you’ve heard in passing from your high school’s anime club.

“I will fuckin’ fight you, John. You want to fight? I will fight you. Right. Now.” As he speaks, Dave rolls up the sleeves of his bomber jacket.

Vriska pounds the fist of her prosthetic arm against the table. This action produces a solid thud, which is in time with her chant, “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

The other attendees—sans the stoned clown guy, who seems to be rolling a blunt in the middle of the room—sit in confused silence.

You and Sollux are both in the process of trying to turn invisible.

( _See what dating does, jackass? Look at your fucking wreck of a boyfriend. Head of the first club of its kind of campus. And, what is he doing? He’s arguing about goddamned—_ )

“Studio Ghibli’s best film is _clearly_ a tossup between _Spirited Away_ and _Howl’s Moving Castle_ , John.” Dave briefly joins Vriska in slamming his fist against the desk, but, he only does this once. Mercifully. To your embarrassment, he then proceeds to articulate the original Japanese names for both films before furthering his case, saying, “These are both intensely emotional and globally relatable films that—”

“Totoro.” John interrupts with a single word. He smirks and folds his hands behind his head.

“That’s a goddamned _children’s film_ , John,” groans Dave. After toggling the wheel locks of his chair, he inches closer to his long-time friend. He places his folded hands atop the table, which John is sitting at, and speaks in the most serious tone that you’ve ever heard him use. “ _Spirited Away_ won a fuckin’ Oscar, Egbert. Did _Totoro_ ’s happy, robust, grey, furry, bouncing ass win an Oscar? No. No, it did not.”

“Totoro.” John repeats the word.

Dave pushes back, against the desk, and lets forth a huff of defeat. “This might just be the most painful betrayal I’ve ever felt in my life. Thanks, John. You’ve broken my heart.” Being the dramatic asshole he is, Dave gestures to the floor, as if something beyond his overflowing dorkiness is there. “Look at it, John. You’ve crushed it. You’ve stepped all over it. Ruined my fuckin’ life. My entire existence is nullified.”

Terezi, after cackling, of course, picks up a wooden gavel. You’re not quite sure where she got it, but it’s an authentic gavel. As it bangs on the desk she’s sitting at, it sure as fuck _sounds_ like the real thing. “Order in the DAASC court.”

The room falls silent. To your surprise, Dave does, too, though he’s still making a point of pouting.

“Although no one in the room has explicitly said it, the objection to Dave’s bullshit is sustained,” announces Terezi. “Have we even… I don’t even fucking know what we’ve done. Dave, did you actually get around to introducing yourself or…?”

“That’s what I was doing before John betrayed my trust.” As if it will make him appear more respectable, Dave brushes off the front of his jacket and straightens his back. He clears his throat and smooths out his already smooth hair. “My name is Dave Strider. I’m the president and founder of the club; Terezi’s the VP and co-founder. Twenty. He/him. Freshman.”

“You’re twenty,” Vriska inquires, her brow raised in confusion, “And you’re a freshman?”

“Money issues.” Dave’s answer is succinct and honest. To a certain degree. There’s more to it; you know that. But, it’s not a crime for him to keep personal matters to himself. At the very least, you understand why he wouldn’t dump the knowledge—some of which even you don’t know—on a freshly gathered group. Personal woes don’t go over well at first meetings.

“So,” Terezi sighs, “Now that we’ve gotten _that_ out of the way… Let’s introduce ourselves, shall we? Name, gender or pronouns, age, and why you’re here. We’ll start with the blue dipshit of a Smurf, who started this entire fiasco.”

John, true to form, grins. “Name’s John Egbert. Male. Freshman. I’m here because of my girlfriend, Vriska.”

You sigh. Clearly, as the second person from the left, it’s your turn. “Karkat. They/them. Freshman. Unfortunately, the asshole of a club president is my boyfriend.”

“I love you, too, Kark,” Dave interrupts.

From what you know of Terezi, you have a feeling she’s rolling her eyes.

“Vriska. She/her. Sophomore.” After brushing some of her long, black hair out of her face, she answers the final question by pulling off her arm. “That’s it, right?”

“Yeah.” Terezi’s response is accompanied by a circular motion of her hand, a sort of gesture that’s indicative of impatience.

Next is a woman with bright red makeup, a wide grin, and tan skin. You’re guessing that her hair is black, but you’re not sure; she’s dyed it bright red. “Aradia. Sher/her. Junior. I just thought it sounded interesting.”

And, in such a fashion, the introductions continue. Of the people present, the only sore thumb of the bunch is Gamzee, who claims to have come for the free brownies. This completely baffles both you and Dave, of course; brownies weren’t part of the meeting. Even after a good amount of thinking, you’re unsure of how Gamzee got such an impression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **more dave doodles + remove that soul patch at once, mister** ](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/post/145411709312/from-the-fic-that-i-gave-and-incredibly-long-name)


	50. "PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT FEELINGS."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Departures (Memory)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiyFeT0Tpkk)  
>  Joe Hisaishi (2008)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT A CERTIFIED PSYCHOLOGIST. I'VE NEVER EVEN TAKEN A PSYCHOLOGY COURSE. HELP ME.

“Are you really sure that _this_ is the life you want to lead?”

In retrospect, you shouldn’t have picked up the phone. You’d seen the caller ID. You knew it was Kankri. And, yet, like a dipshit, you picked up the phone. Life has, thus, punished you with what is edging ever-closer to a solid hour of listening to your brother’s patronizing bullshit. “Kankri, I have to go.”

“No, you don’t. You need to listen to me, Karkat. As your brother, it’s my duty to inform you of the implications of your decision. Are you truly willing to—?”

“We’re friends. We’re really fucking good friends. And we happen to be dating. There’s nothing in my agenda about marrying Dave goddamned Strider the minute I graduate.” With a long sigh, you crawl onto your bed. It hasn’t been used much; you sleep with Dave more often. Still, it’s not some sort of dustbowl. The only inconvenience is the fact that you’ve begun using it as a storage space. You have to shove a few boxes out of the way to make room for yourself. “Kankri, I need to leave.”

“The future is a different topic. You’re harming yourself in the present, now, Karkat.”

“Oh?” you scoff. “How fucking so?”

“It’s bad enough that you’re in the historic south. Beyond appearing as outwardly gay to strangers, you’re pinning yourself as a sexual deviant.” Kankri pauses. You enjoy the silence, though it doesn’t last long. “Dave is a perfectly nice young man. He seems incredibly bright and talented, and I’m sure he can find some sort of profitable blue collar job to provide for himself. But, you shouldn’t be dating him. And he shouldn’t be dating you.”

“And why not?”

( _You’re rich enough. If you drop your phone into the toilet, you’ll have a new one in the next week…_ )

“He’s initiating you into a community you don’t belong to, Karkat. And he’s placing undue stress on you.” From his end, Kankri sighs. You can practically see him, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve already had to care for him. And, beyond that, you’ll never be seen as anything more than someone who settled for less than you’re worth.”

Though you know that Kankri can be offensive and ignorant, you’d never expect him to throw a curveball like this. As you saw it, even he couldn’t stoop that low, but, apparently, he can. And he is. “Dave can take care of his own damned self. He’s an adult. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks, because—”

“Mom and Dad are disappointed, you know.” Kankri’s voice is the same as always, and it’s infuriating. It’s this low, soft, coddling hum. The sort of voice that people use when they’re talking to babies. “They act happy, but they’re on my side. You need to dump him.”

“How about I dump this fucking phone call?” you snap.

Kankri tuts thrice. “Karkat, I’m only looking out for your wellbeing. Keep Dave as a friend. Certainly. He’s a perfectly respectable young man. But, in a relationship, he’s a burden. You’ll be barred from doing so many things. And, when you can do things, think of the time it will take to do them.”

“Whatever.” Around now, you find that you’ve worked up the courage to simply hang up on your brother. “Later, Kankri.”

“No. You don’t under—”

With the touch of a button, the line is silent. With a loud groan of frustration, you flop against your bed.

From below you, there’s a familiar voice. “Kankri again?”

You jump slightly, having forgotten that your boyfriend is in the room, before answering. “Yeah.”

“Y’know, Kark, it wouldn’t hurt for you to listen to him.”

After a pause to digest the words that are being spoken, you peer over the edge of your bed. “You’re fucking shitting me, right?”

Dave is sitting on his bed, just as he had been when the phone call came through. At this exact moment, he’s filling up one of those weekly pillboxes. Not surprisingly, his is bright red. “Nope.” He shrugs. “I mean… Oh. Fuck. Heaven forbid I voice my opinion on my body, but…”

Unlike most things that come from his mouth, this statement is flat. It leans towards hostile, even. It’s something he’s never directed at you and, now that he has, you’re more than a bit uncomfortable. Still, you remain silent; you let him answer.

“I’m just saying that he’s got a fuckin’ point. We’re in the physical peak of our lives, dude. What happens when that tanks?” He shrugs and pops the covers of each day closed, one by one, until he reaches the end. “I’m not saying anything against you, Kark. I’m just saying that he actually has a point. Maybe.”

“You actually think we’ll last that long?” You intend for this to be a joke. You accompany it with a playful grin and a comically raised brow, too.

He, however, seems to seriously consider the inquiry. He frowns. “I… Probably not. You’ll probably get sick of me before then. But… I’m just saying…”

“Where the fuck is this coming from all of a sudden?” This time, your question is honest. After all, you’ve always seen Dave as the guy who takes insults with a grain of salt. He’s the kid you’d try to bully in middle school, only to find that they actually think your attempts are hilarious. Confident. Cocky. Maybe even a bit arrogant. This is how you’ve built him to be in your mind and, yet…

“You’re a lot like John, Karkat. Not all giggly and shit, but you’re concerned as fuck about everyone you know.” ( _True… you suppose. Note to self: Try and make this less obvious._ ) “You’re in for one hell of a ride. I’ve probably been hospitalized… Or. No, scratch that. Bro _should_ have taken me to a hospital more times that you’ve probably seen a hundred dollar bill.”

“And you’ve made it out fine the few times I know of,” you shrug and descend from your lofted bed.

Dave, to your annoyance, tuts in a very Kankri-esque manner. “He’s got some good points, Kark. Might be useful for you to listen to ‘em for once.”


	51. "WHAT IS THIS, AN ANIME?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Upholstery**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8q2ejKAsHg)  
>  _Phantom of the Paradise_ (1974)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE FUCKING BEACH EPISODE. THIS IS. THE BEACH. EPISODE. WHAT'S NEXT? IS THIS GOING TO BE A BOTTLE CHAPTER? IS THE WORLD GOING TO COLLAPSE INTO A STATE OF CHAOS?

For your school, spring break coincides with Easter. It’s a one week period, which begins with the weekend of Easter Sunday.

Since Dave had nowhere to go, you proposed an offer. Or, rather, you dug into your pockets and forked out some money for gas, food, and lodging at the nearby beach. You booked the only accessible resort on the entire boardwalk, paid more than a few pretty pennies for it. You also ran the idea by Dave, seeing as you’re not quite sure of the logistics.

He, however, was like a kid in a candy store. Apparently, he loves beaches. According to Rose, he’s privately mentioned that some of his fondest memories are of family beach trips.

Prior to the outing, Dave replaced the wheels of his chair with tires manufactured specifically to not sink into the sand. They’re larger than his usual ones, and they’re admittedly annoying. They also make him look like he’s part of some sort of ungodly balloon sculpture. Beyond that, though, the trip seems to be fucking fail proof.

You checked into your room a few hours ago. Though the sun is no longer at its peak, it’s still hot outside. To keep Dave from overheating, you’ve brought one of those misting fans. You’d bought it online for a few dollars; it’s little more than a spray bottle filled with cold water, and capped with a battery-powered fan.

Right now, you’re at the beach.

Dave is dressed in a thin, red shirt and some shorts. Citing the fact that he won’t be swimming in the ocean, he’s forfeited his shoes; they’re tucked into a pouch beneath the seat. Without shoes, though, it’s more obvious that his feet naturally point inwards. His toes, particularly on his left foot, seem to be consistently curled inwards.

By theory, Dave noticed you looking. He’d flipped you off and proposed that you give him some sort of foot massage. Thinking about it now, you’re pretty sure he pulled the name of the massage out of his ass.

That aside…

You’re literally on the beach. The sand is between your toes and under your toenails. You're not sure how, but there might also be some in your shorts. The ocean waves crash against the shore, leaving a stretch of flat mud in their wake. You, however, are anything but relaxed. You’re currently trying to stake an umbrella in the shifting sands of your own frustration and, as far as you’re concerned, it’s not going well.

Dave, however, is everything but stressed. He’s your polar opposite. He’s pushed the sand to form an incline and, now, he rests on it. It tilts him back a bit, like a natural recliner. Couple that with the grin on his face and the fact that his hands are behind his head, and you could legitimately assume he’s asleep.

“You going to help or…?” you huff.

Quirking his brow, Dave turns towards you. He backs off of his artificial recliner dune. “Do we actually need an umbrella?”

“Did you put on sunscreen?”

Though he opens his mouth to reply, Dave doesn’t actually say anything for a solid minute. And, when he does, it’s with the slightest of frowns. “I’m not actually sure, dude. That is a fuckin’ great question.”

“STRIDER.”

“Shush,” Dave tuts. “Everything is fine. Relax.”

“Fuck.” You sigh and cast aside the umbrella. By now, you’ve given up on getting it in place.

This display is met with a snort of laughter from Dave. It’s a graceless, dorky noise that, as someone who knows him, is just what you’d expect. “You’re awful at relaxing vacations, aren’t you?”

“If I could get this umbrella to stand up straight, everything would be fucking dandy,” you grumble, arms folded across your chest, much like a petulant toddler.

“If that really is the umbrella’s problem, then I feel it. I feel the umbrella. We’re brothers, now. Me and the umbrella. The umbrella and I.”

“This umbrella will go down your fucking throat if you don’t shut up,” you playfully reply.

Dave shrugs. “Sounds pretty hot. I’m getting a materialistic boner just thinking about it.”

Your best attempts to put a lid on your laughter fail. You’re left snickering, leaning against the side of Dave’s chair, and wondering why you ever decided to date this dork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was short i apologize comments, feedback, and suggestions are always open


	52. "PREPARE FOR TROUBLE."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Symphony 25 in G minor**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNeirjA65Dk)  
>  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1773)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, TINY MORTAL. I AM REFERENCING SOMETHING FAR BEYOND YOUR SHORT-SIGHTED UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE. I'M REFERENCING POKÉMON. WHAT IS IT, STRIDER? SAY IGNORANT SHIT, AND GET HIT? NO? IT'S JUST "TALK SHIT, GET HIT?" FUCK.

By now, it’s Wednesday.

Dave has thoroughly enjoyed hanging out on the beach. Not surprisingly, this made for a room full of sand. Every time he moved, the fine grains flew out like swarming bees. They came from their hiding places: beneath his seat cushion, from between the mechanisms of his wheel locks, out of poorly emptied pockets, and in the treads of his tires. He’s managed a mild tan, too. Not that it makes much of a difference.

Today, though, he’s proposed that you go to the boardwalk amusement park. It’s thirty dollars per person for a park-wide pass, or you could drop a dollar per person for every ride. Seeing little to lose, you chose the first option. You then handed the map to Dave and asked him what he wanted to do.

And that leads you to the present.

Apparently, there’s a laser tag place in the park. Regular entry is ten dollars a person; with your passes, you get in free. ( _Look at you, being financially responsible. Fuck yeah._ )

You, personally, have never been a big fan of these sorts of things. You think of them as brash and, honestly, you’re just not very good at it. Dave, however, claims that, on your team, he can make even _you_ into a laser tag champion.

You’re not sure if you believe him. But, while waiting for there to be enough players, some snotty tween proclaimed himself the champion of laser tag. He then went on to claim that Dave would never be able to beat him. Oddly enough, though, he seemed intimidated by you. When you’d shot him a death glare for his comment, he did a shoddy job of trying to smooth things over.

Now, you’re hiding in one of the maze’s niches. The fog machine, which is also hidden in the niche, blows against the back of your neck. It’s an all-around uncomfortable experience. Dave, however, insists that it’s a great idea.

“There’s a platform above us. Probably use it for maintenance work,” he whispers to you. “They said anything but non-certified laser weapons was far game, right?”

You nod. In the back of your mind, you’re aware of the fact that this means your boyfriend is coming up with some wild plot. “Are you really going this far for some snotty prepubescent shitball?”

“Yes,” Dave hisses. He ducks, entering the space alongside you. Now, it’s a tight fit. You’re squeezed against one side; he’s on the other. “Lift me. I think I can reach it from here.”

“What!?”

“Lift me,” he repeats, motioning to the chimney-like vent overhead. In the dim lighting, you can see a wide grin spread across his face. “I’m going to teach that fuckin’ kid a lesson about manners.”

With a heavy sigh, you do as instructed. You grab Dave and hoist him onto your shoulders.

From there, he leads you. To be more precise, he pulls himself in the right direction, which just so happens to move you, too.

“How do you plan on getting back down, Strider?”

“No time to think about that, Kark.” As soon as these words have been said, his weight lifts. Glancing up, you can see the outline of his feet, dangling haphazardly over the edge. “You’re an idiot,” you growl.

Dave, in return, shushes you. You can hear him snickering. Then, after a few seconds, you hear his voice. “I’m coming back down. Spot me.”

“You… What!?” you stammer, watching as Dave’s shadow moves.

“There’s a ladder built into one side. Or maybe they’re just support beams. Spot me.” With that said, he lowers himself from his hiding place. Somehow, he manages to reach where you can grab him without dying. And, as he settles back into his seat, he offers you a sheepish smile. “By the way, there was a thin staircase on one side.”

“Fucking shit.” You roll your eyes.

Dave simply nods. He offers you a slap on the back before pushing out of the niche. He looks around, his white shirt glowing blue against the black light, and motions for you to follow.

As you’re not exactly sure of what to do, you simply follow him. “Are you really stooping this low for revenge, Strider? Against some twerpy tween?”

“Nice alliteration.” As he says this, Dave tilts back, catching himself with his forearm before he can hit the floor. A ray of light manages to miss the sensors on his torso. Instead, it hits the footplate of its chair. From his bewildered hum, it seems that he’s also shocked when the reflective surface mirrors the shot back to the source. He rights himself easily. “But, yeah. Look, Kark. Striders don’t lose. And that kid was a rude asshole. Someone’s got to teach him manners, right?” As he speaks, he twirls the laser gun between his fingers.

You simply roll your eyes. “You’d be an awful father, fuckwit.”

A light beam hits your sensor. You frown.

Dave snickers. “I’d be one rad dad, and you fuckin’ know it. And you’re a shit soldier.”

( _Thinking about it, you’re actually in agreement with him. Dave’s the sort of guy who can match anyone’s level. For all you know, he’s fluent in nonsensical babbling. He treats kids like anyone else. You wouldn’t leave kids with him, alone, for a week, though. They’d probably come back with apple juice for blood and with clots made of generic chocolate cereal puffs._ )

The lights come on. Having lost the past few minutes to your own thoughts, you blink a few times. Dave nudges you towards the exit.

“I want to see the score, dude.”

You sigh. Again.

Back in the lobby area, the scores certainly speak for themselves. Dave beats the kid. Hell, if this was a race, Dave would’ve been across the finish line by the time this kid realized the race even began.

 

Even as you lay beside him in bed, the idea from earlier still floats in your mind.

You’ve always had the idea that you’d marry an average somebody and adopt a kid or two. And, not to say that you’re planning on staying with Dave long enough for this idea to be realistic, but…

“Hey, Dave…”

“Aw.” He shifts slightly, rolling so that he’s on his stomach. This is, from what you know, his standard sleeping position. You suppose it makes sense; he sits for most of the day. Sleeping on his stomach relieves the stress he imposes on his lower body. “You called me by my first name. You really _do_ care.”

“I can drive your car right out of this dumpy little beach, Strider,” you insincerely threaten. Then, with a deep breath, you ask, “You said you think you’d be a pretty good dad, didn’t you?”

“Mhm.” A yawn escapes him.

“So… You’d say that you’d see yourself with kids in the future?”

After an uncertain cough, Dave responds. His voice is softer than usual, almost wistful. “I mean… I’d like to prove that I’m not like Bro. I want to keep the Strider name going. And… I don’t know.” You feel him shrug. His shoulder rubs against your chest. His head is turned towards you. “I want to be better than Bro, if that makes sense…”

“It does.”

“Cool.” With another yawn, Dave stretches the arm closest to you. He wraps it loosely over your shoulder, draping it there like a maiden in a dramatic Renaissance painting. “Good night, Kark.”

“Night, Strider.”


	53. "YES. THIS IS YOURS."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**My Heart Will Go On**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UeKpk2F8YBU)  
>  Celine Dion, **_Titanic_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES. I BOUGHT IT. GO FUCKING WILD. I'M ALSO GOING TO KILL YOU FOR HIJACKING MY SONG CHOICE, YOU FUCKING JERK.

After the beach trip, things quickly returned to normal. Time passes quickly.

April passes in a flurry of papers and review work.

May marks the end of the semester.

It’s also supposed to be the point at which the house you purchased—a small, two-story California bungalow style building—completes its retrofitting. To you, the house was cheap. It’s a roughly twenty minute ride off-campus, and it faces towards a fairly busy street. There’s garage, a living room, and two bedrooms. By your own arrangements, however, the second bedroom is being removed. Instead, you’re turning it into a pull-down attic.

They’ve gotten most of it done. What they haven’t gotten to, however, is the alternate entrance to the house. Dave’s able to jump the three steps to the porch; he offers his aid inside. Rose and Kanaya help you move larger furniture.

Over the course of three hours, the four of you manage to get things into an arrangement that’s fairly livable. You’ve got the sofa set up and the TV trays out. The coffeemaker, an essential piece of Dave’s wellbeing, and the microwave are both plugged in. Now, you and everyone else sit on the floor, forming a circle. Dave, too, has lowered himself onto the hardwood. His back leans against the footrests of his chair; the wheels are locked in place.

Thanks to Rose, you’re enjoying some homemade potato salad. Normally, you’re not a huge fan of it. However, the potato salad that Rose has made is fucking amazing. It’s delicious, even.

“So, what?” Dave mutters, speaking through a mouthful of food. With his cheeks puffed out, he looks like some sort of strange chipmunk. “Does this mean that we’re starting our domestic life together?”

You, naturally, scoff at the notion. “I’m staying around to help you out, Strider. What makes you think I have any interest in pursuing any sort of amorous relations with you?”

“How about this?” As he speaks, he twirls his spoon between his fingers. “You dropped a good hundred grand on this place. Who would do that for someone he ain’t the least bit interested in, hm?”

“Dave has a point,” Rose chimes in.

Kanaya nods.

You breathe a sigh of faux annoyance. “What is this?” you ask. “Gang up on Karkat day? Is it time to piss all over my self-esteem?”

“Always a good time for that, dude.” With this said, Dave readjusts himself.

You roll your eyes.

Still, somewhere in your gut, you have a feeling that this is going to be an interesting summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short one sorry


	54. family trees are fuckin weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>    
>  [Bucks of Oranmore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZdM9Rp_e0o)   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who the fuck is this and why does he look like me

It’s Thursday.

Though we’ve been living in the house for less than a week, Karkat ended up getting dragged off to some sort of family reunion. They left yesterday and, as it stands, they won’t be back for a week. They left me a pretty fair wad of cash, though. Seeing as it’s not really my money, though, I’m hesitant to use it for much, beyond emergencies.

But that’s not the point. The point is that Rose invited me to meet her for lunch. She’s apparently hosting my paternal, and her maternal, cousin. His name is Dirk. He’s twenty-two. Raised in Wisconsin. The son of a real-estate agent and a surgeon—his father and mother, respectively. A rising star in the field of robotics.

He’s also someone who, apparently, is a big deal. He’s the inventor of a rechargeable exoskeleton. It’s something as grandiose as I'd expect from yourself or Bro, ripped straight from some sort of regal, retro-futuristic rulebook. Sort of. And I know this because he’s wearing it.

It’s a fairly sturdy set of mechanical leg braces with articulating knees. As far as I can tell, it’s powered by a pair of battery packs on each side of his hips. Wires connect the batteries to panels on his shoulders; a comparable fashion point that I can think of is an epaulette. That’s not the most amazing part, though. No. The part that’s so extraordinary is how quietly it runs. If you weren’t looking for it, I’d bet the remaining functional portion of my spinal cord that you’d barely notice it. Hell, even I didn’t notice it at first. It just looks like some sort of eccentric, bright orange armor. The only indicators of its necessity are a pair of matching crutches, one of which seems to have a controller built into it.

“Dirk, this is Dave,” Rose’s voice breaks through my haze of thought. My gaze is drawn back to the focus of the meeting. “Dave, this is Dirk.”

I nod.

He bows slightly. “So…” If his voice is anything to go off of, he’s as nervous as I am. He tugs at his collar and chews at his lip, shifting his weight from one side to the other. “This is pretty weird.”

“Did you just notice or…?” I quirk my brow and follow him and Rose as we begin to meander aimlessly through the park, which we’d agreed to meet at.

Now, since it’s a park, I’d attached a third wheel to the front of my chair. It’s something that, in my opinion, looks like shit. I often think it makes the thing look like an adult-sized stroller. In its defense, though, it provides more stability. I’m a fairly new user; Karkat only just bought it for me as an end-of-the-year gift.

Would I have ever been able to afford it otherwise? Wow. Okay. Imagine a massive crowd of people. They’re all standing around you. They’re pointing at you and laughing. That’s me. Right now, that’s me. Like I’d be able to drop six hundred dollars on some fairly superfluous accessory.

Anyhow, it’s not all that common. At least, in my experience, it ain’t. After all, it _is_ SIX HUNDRED dollars. SIX. HUNDRED. And that’s without the shipping. It also doesn’t include the four hours of head-scratching that was the assembly process. Nor does it factor in the $130 rack attachment, which is a flat surface that can be affixed to the top of this front wheel. I’m supposed to use this for things like shopping baskets or other things that could just go on my fuckin’ lap; I plan on using it for little more than overflow purchases at the record store. But, again, I’m rambling. The point is that Dirk seems to have taken a lot of interest in it and, after maybe ten minutes of awkward-as-fuck silence, he finally brings it up.

“That’s a pretty neat thing. I’m going assume it’s to make all-terrain navigation easier?”

I nod. Somewhere, in the distance, I can hear an ice cream truck. Now, I may be twenty, but I’ll burn in hell before I let one of those heavenly vehicles slip past me. I pause for a moment, shoving my hand into my pocket to check my current cash balance. I already know how much I have, though; I took exactly fifty dollars when I left. Seeing as I haven’t spent any of it, I still have that much. I’m just checking to make sure.

“So… um… Rose tells me that you’re dating someone named Karkat?” Dirk takes another stab at initiating a conversation.

“Yeah,” I shrug. By now, it’s old news. We’ve been dating for months. “What about you? Surely, you’ve got some sort of robot-loving significant other, eh?” Though my initial instinct is to elbow him in the side, I rethink it when I notice that much of what I can reach is shielded by the metal frame of the braces.

Dirk responds with a nervous laugh. He readjusts his shades. “I… Um… Not really. No. I’m not really datable.”

“Sure you are. You’re a Strider.”

“Which is an ironic last name, don’t you think?” he comments.

It’s obvious that he’s trying to change the topic. Still, he has a point. “Touché.”

“You have a YouTube channel, don’t you?”

I pause. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if anyone actually watched my videos. For all I know, it was Karkat paying random people to click on my videos for an ego boost. ( _Although, the more I think about this idea, the more improbable it gets._ ) I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. After all, I’m being noticed. And, for once, it’s not because of some overly concerned stranger who thinks I need for them to hold every single goddamned door open. “I do. You watch it?”

“Sometimes,” he admits, a sheepish grin flashing across his features. “Rose told me about it. That’s how I know some stuff about you, so… I guess you can ask me questions?”

“That sounds fair.” By now, we’ve reached the playground. It’s a good ways into the park, and we’re beneath a healthy amount of shade. So, we decide to stop. We rest on one of the faded wooden benches, and I take my opportunity to learn about the family I didn’t know I had. ( _There’s another Strider, after all. No need to feel bad about continuing the Strider genetic legacy now, right?_ ) “Where’re you living?”

“A little town that’s about three hours from here.” He removes his shades, revealing a pair of copper-colored eyes. This differentiates him from Bro. Bro’s eyes were slate grey; so, that’s another plus for Dirk. “And you live nearby, don’t you?”

“Fuck yeah.”

As if prompted by my cursing, one of the kids falls off the jungle gym. They then proceed to start screaming. I do my best to ignore it as I continue. “What’s with the exoskeleton?”

“Car crash,” he shrugs. “Looks like us Striders have bad luck with cars.”

“Probably.” I pause. While it’s a habit that I should probably try to break, I rub my palms against my knees as I think of something to say. Really, though, I _do_ need to stop doing that. I keep getting holes in the knees of my pants. And it takes fuckin’ forever to get new ones in. I have to go all the way to the store. And then I have to actually find pants. It’s just a very mild but annoying inconvenience. “I share the place with Karkat. And… um… you can come over whenever you like.”

“That sounds neat.” Around now, Dirk pauses. He looks around. “Did we lose Rose?”

I, naturally, shrug. If we did lose her, she’ll be able to take care of herself. Besides, I have a feeling that we didn’t lose her. To confirm this, I check my phone. When I find my evidence, I speak. “She says she left us alone shortly after we met each other. She’s wondering why it took us so fuckin’ long to notice.”

Again, another child falls from the jungle gym.

Dirk snickers, much to the visible annoyance of some unknown soccer dad. “Every time you curse, a child is injured. For just sixteen cents a day, you can buy them Band-Aids.”

I, in return, scoff at this notion. “Like hell I’d donate sixteen cents a day. With sixty-nine more cents, I can buy a gumball.”

“Well. I can definitely tell that we’re related, Dave.”

“As if the fact that you look a whole lot like me doesn’t say anything.”

He shrugs and rises to his feet with ease and speed. As he motions for me to follow, I release my chair’s wheel locks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **if you're looking for dirk, he's here**


	55. yes hello im officially taller than you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Motet for five Voices](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQo_LirQY-k)**  
>  G P Palestrina (1584)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its fuckin official now

Let me be perfectly clear: I don’t have any sort of personal beef with Dirk. Beyond the fact that he looks like my older brother, he seems like a genuinely interesting person. Obviously, he’s smart. He’s made his own goddamned exoskeleton. Created his own business. All that fancy bullshit.

No, my problem isn’t with him at all. It’s with his product, and the amount of attention it receives. I’ve got an issue with how much the world seems to be praising his invention as the way of the future.

And, maybe, it’s a purely internal and wholly self-made problem. Or, maybe, I could define it as a communal problem. There are definitely people out there who have never been able-bodied. From what I know and what I’ve experienced, I have no desire to return to that world, either. Sure, it’d be more convenient, but it’s not practical. It’s not economical.

And let me let you in on a little secret, alright? I’m sure you’ve heard about my medical dog tag. The little piece of metal I wear around my neck to say to any sort of medical response team something like, “Hey. If I’m not reacting to something that’s very obviously fucked up my legs, this is completely normal. Don’t panic and get the spinal stabilization board out, because those things suck.” The other half of it is HSP. Hereditary spastic paraplegia. Yes, _hereditary_. Surprise, surprise. It runs in the Strider family; clearly, God has _some_ sense of humor. ( _I like it. You can hate it. I’m not big into arguing that sort of petty shit out._ )

The essential gist of the idea is that, once I hit my early teen years, I’d start tanking, anyhow. That’s according to tests and predictions. Not that I’ll ever know for sure, but I’d definitely end up with my wheelchair either way. It’s like the so-called red string of fate thing, with the difference being that it’s between me and an inanimate object. ( _Being literally stabbed in the back is a much more dramatic way for it to happen, in my opinion. It also makes for a better story._ ) I’m guessing that Dirk is about the same, in this respect.

To make a long rant even fuckin’ longer, the whole idea rubs me the wrong way.

But that’s all a load of theoretical shit. It’s my personal feelings, and we all know how much those are worth, right?

The point is that, despite these feelings, I took Dirk up on his offer.

He’d brought a pair with him and, out of curiosity and other… secret… reasons… _Because I can_ , I’m going to do it. Besides, he went through all that effort to make me a custom set. The pack that I have to wear on my back—apparently, the thing with the main computer inside—offsets the weight of my upper body. Beyond that, Dirk’s strapped an elastic band around my waist. He’s got a pretty good hold on it, too. From what I can see.

“Try whenever you’re ready. I’ve got you.”

While I never would have believed those words from Bro, I trust Dirk. He’s been through this, after all.

Besides, Rose is here. If Dirk drops me, she’ll kick his ass. And, certainly, I’ll join in once I’ve woken up.

“So…”

Dirk gestures to one of the buttons on the forearm crutch. Actually, it’s the only button. Beside it are two very clear icons—one for sitting, one for standing. Right now, the sitting icon is highlighted in red.

I press the button and wince as the motors push me upwards, until I’m tottering precariously between what amounts to two metal sticks. And it’s six feet to the ground. At least. Still, I can feel the belt around my waist pulling me back. Or, rather, I can sense it counteracting gravity. Unlike Bro, Dirk’s got my back. Literally. And, so far, I’m fine with maintaining my confidence in him.

“Lean forward.”

“Wait… What?” I stammer.

Rose snickers.

From somewhere in the kitchen, I hear Kanaya. “Hey. Dave. Are you planning on eating the rest of this orange Jell-O?”

( _Really? Now? Fuck._ )

“Nope. I—” Here, I stop. Though I can still tell that I’m being held up, Dirk has pushed me. My natural reaction is to move the crutches forwards, which prompts the legs to move. The left goes first. It moves forwards, falters halfway through its arch, and finally touches down on the ground. The right leg follows.

As a whole, it’s a strange process. Not that I can feel it. But I can definitely feel my center of gravity moving like it hasn’t moved in the past eleven years, and it’s vaguely nauseating. It’s enough to make my head spin. Behind me—or, maybe, it’s in front of me? I don’t know.

The voice comes from somewhere. And it’s definitely Dirk.

“You’re fine, dude,” he says, his voice far calmer and gentler than anything I’d ever heard from Bro, “This is totally normal. Keep moving.”

“Shit.” I’m going to be honest. I’ve never been big on standing frames and that sort of shit. It’s weird. It’s disorienting. In my personal opinion, it’s a thing that’s all in your head. You expect to see your legs moving when you walk and, when they don’t, it fucks you up. But… Hey. Who knows? The main thing is that I often end up puking if I stay standing for too long. And I’m not about to make Karkat come back to puke on the floor.

“Keep moving.” He gives me another encouraging shove.

Again, I move ahead. The dizziness lessens.

For the first time since I’ve actually met her in person, I tower above Rose. It’s a pretty damned good feeling. “I actually am tall. Kark was right.”

“Kark?” Rose rolls her eyes and scoffs.

Dirk, for his share, laughs.

“What?”

“What an awful pet name,” Rose snickers. “Really, Dave? You can’t think of another name? I believe in you, Dave. You can think of another name.”

“Yeah?” I counter. I shift my weight forward, prompting the machine to move again. “How about this? I’ll stop calling them Karkat and just go straight for Kark.”

“Nothing about you is straight,” Kanaya calls from the kitchen.

Again, Dirk laughs.

And, honestly, I can’t help but join in. To be frank, I’m possibly the happiest I’ve been in years. “Says Kanaya fuckin’ Maryam.”

“Touché,” she responds.

“Hey. Dave. Karkat’s calling.”

I frown. I stare at Rose and quirk my brow. “Video call?”

“Yeah.”

“Slam that answer button,” Dirk comments.

( _As it turns out, he really is related to me. Look at us meme trash Striders._ )

Rose, understandably, groans. She answers and turns the phone to face us.

I’m greeted by a familiar, harsh voice. “Strider. What the fuck do you… Strider? Fuck. There are two of you?”

Dirk whistles. “Not too bad on the eyes, Dave,” he comments.

I offer as much of a bow as I can manage. “I pick only the finest of the fine.”

“Yeah?” Karkat grumbles, “Why don’t you go shove a pick up your nose and stir? I hear that that’s how they get the perfect mummy brain, Strider. Drain it and maybe have it for dessert. Serve it over some fucking ice.” With that much said, they roll their eyes. They fold their arms across their chest. “What the fuck are you doing, Strider?”

“Dirk’s showing me his invention,” I announce. “It’s nifty, ain’t it?”

“I guess.” Karkat leans in and squints. “I think I like you better when you’re below eye-level, though. It makes you easier to ignore.”

“That hurts,” I say, frowning in the most facetious way possible, “That really hurts, Kark. That just gets me right in the heart.”

“Yeah,” Rose quips, “That cold, frozen icicle must be reaching some record-breaking temperatures right now.”

“You’re all a bunch of assholes,” is my reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **comments and feedback and suggestions are always welcome and appreciated**


	56. and the lord said let there be lag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Saturday Night is the Loneliest Night of the Week](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IP0P2hw31i0)**  
>  Frank Sinatra (1944)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or was it satan who knows maybe lag is our punishment for inventing anime

In the low light of the suite they’re staying in, I can barely see Karkat. Their dark hair blends with the shadows and most of their face is hidden in a similar manner. It’s hard to make out their features, but their voice is crystal clear.

“You’re not missing anything, Strider. Trust me.”

“Really?”

Looking closely, I can tell that they’re dressed in some sort of suit. It’s too big for them and the shoulders hang loosely from their frame. As they lean over and flip the light switch, their facial expression becomes clearer. And, with that clarity, there’s a poignant distaste for whatever sort of shit they’ve been forced into. “You’re really not.”

“You look… interesting…” I say.

They respond with a huff of annoyance. “Look. I didn’t pick this. There’s a long, complicated story behind all this, and the basic summary is…” As they say this, their gaze drifts away from the computer. They twiddle their thumbs and furrow their brows. “It’s a load of absolute fucking bullshit. My parents are pretty cool with everything, but the rest of the family… Let’s just say that I’m the only non-practicing Catholic in my entire family.”

“Oh…” That’s about all I can muster as a response.

Karkat shrugs. “On the bright side, my last remaining grandparent, my maternal grandfather, agrees with me.”

“On what?”

“He says you’re, quote, ‘A damned fine young man. _Parecido bien_.’ End quote.” At his comment, Karkat offers a small half-smile. “So, what? Dirk’s machine worked out fine for you?”

“More or less.” I tap my fingers against the dining room table, on top of which I’be set the computer. Sure, it was an interesting feeling, but it’s not something I’m too excited about. I’ve never cared much for the technology to ‘fix’ people. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if you were going to keep using it. Like… in public…?”

“Nah. No. Fuck no.” To emphasize my point, I shake my head. “Way too much work for anything besides getting around the house.”

“How so?” The camera shifts, giving me the impression that it’s set atop the bed. Karkat leans back, resting against thick, fluffy-looking pillows. Their brow is quirked, one raised inquisitively.

Seeing no reason to say otherwise, I respond truthfully. “Core control is something you kind of need to use it.” Though I’m aware that Karkat knows this already, I demonstrate. I lift myself a few inches from my seat, allowing my lower body to naturally drop. Before continuing, I lower myself back into a more stable position. “Unless Dirk can get an abdominal rig for it, I probably won’t be able to use it independently. And that’s kind of counterintuitive, ain’t it?”

“True. _Sip_.” Karkat shrugs.

“I might use it around the house. It’s better than one of those fuckin’ awful standing chairs. Especially that cheap piece of shit I’ve been holding onto.”

“Any idea how Dirk’s thing works?”

“It senses your center of gravity,” I respond confidently; Dirk had explained the whole thing to me, after all. “If I tilt forwards, it’ll move to compensate. He’s yet to get it to go backwards.”

“Anything for turning?” It’s hard to tell, at this point, if Karkat is genuinely interested. Maybe, they’re just making casual conversation. “I mean… For you, Strider, they should probably have indicators. Use them to cover those indecent shoulders of yours.”

“That’s the main problem. To turn, you’ve got to move your center of gravity to the side. Just swinging my shoulders around doesn’t cut it.” I shrug. Looking at Karkat, though, I see a brief flash of disappointment cross his features. I file this information in the back of my mind. “Theoretically, if I were a few inches up, I wouldn’t be doing most of what I’m doing. I guess it’s just fuckin’ luck that I’ve got complete hand and arm function.”

“Maybe.” Karkat, too, shrugs.

I proceed to change the topic. “That front wheel thing you got,” I begin.

“Obviously, it didn’t go according to plan. I was hoping it would snap off and throw you into a volcano.” They sigh, with a combination of wistfulness and insincerity. “Really, though, Strider, you’ve already tried it?”

“Not that hard to use.”

( _That’s a lie. That’s as big of a lie as if you walked up to goddamned John Wilkes Booth and asked him, as he held the smoking gun, “Oh. Hey. Did you just shoot that guy?” and he just nodded and said, “Aw. Yeah. Nope. Never seen him.”_ )

I maintain my usual cool and, as I continue, it seems that he doesn’t notice my fabricated statement. “It works pretty well. Kept me from falling into a creek and drowning after I crack my fuckin’ skull open, I guess.”

They smirk. “If you were using a rope swing, that’s the plot of a children’s novel.”

“Let’s _not_ talk about that book,” I counter. “Obviously, its moral is that the kids should have asked for parental consent to build a bridge over the creek. Problem solved.”

“And, then, the kids just fall through a rotten wooden bridge.”

“You’re just a pessimist, Kark.” I pause. Seeing as we’ve been rambling aimlessly for a while, I turn the conversational focus back to them. “So, is there anyone else, besides your grandfather, who approves of me?”

“I… No.” Karkat frowns. They return to nervously twiddling their thumbs. “The general consensus is that I’m going to hell or something like Kankri’s bullshit—”

“As much as I hate the bastard, I have to agree. Kankri’s right about some things.” Seeing as this seems to be a touchy subject, I move on with something else. “So… Still won’t be home for another few days?”

“Legally, I still live here,” Karkat mutters, rolling their eyes. “Where you are is listed as one of my properties.”

“That makes this your shitty vacation home, then,” I point out, “Come take a goddamned vacation.”

“Jackass.” Despite their response, I can tell they’re kidding. Sort of. “I’ll be back as soon as I can get a ride out of here, alright?”

“I suppose.” With this much said, I provide an enigmatic sigh. “Just don’t catch some shady dudebro and end up chopped up in the woods, alright? That’d be a pretty sucky way to start the summer.”

“Hm?” Karkat’s response is genuine confusion. “What? The internet’s being a piece of shit over here… Sorry.”

“Fuck.”

Somewhere, in the distance, I can hear someone talking. Loudly. Angrily. Clearly, thing are about to go down. Shit is hitting the fan, and I’m not about to be a part of it.

They remove me before I can make my move, though. “We’ll talk later, Strider. I’ve got to go tell Kankri to shut the fuck up. Stay safe, you fucking twit.”

I nod and offer a brief wave.

The camera and, by default, the call ends there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **place fic in oven and continue to roast fic until it is crispy on the outside. when cut open, fic should actually be very fluffy on the inside. as always, comments and feedback and suggestions for future chapters are appreciated**


	57. golf is for losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Time Travel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpNjiQSnizs)**  
>  Ann Sally (2008) _Professor Layton and the Unwound Future_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but mini golf is for kings

I’m not entirely sure of _why_ Rose invited me to play some late night mini golf with her, Dirk, and Kanaya, but she did. She invited me to what is literally the only mini golf place in town, obviously.

( _I’m not being facetious or making any accessibility jabs here, people. This place is bumfuck nowhere in terms of mini golf courses. Literally. It’s the only one. There is only one place to play mini golf in this entire fuckin’ city, and that’s right fuckin’ here. At the Old Ashville Apartments Mini Golf Course and Pool Hall. Which, in my opinion, is a long name. They should shorten it some._ )

Right now, I’m trying to find a club that’s my size. As it turns out, the adult clubs are too big. Or, maybe they’re not. Maybe I’m just not good with technique, or, maybe, it’s something else entirely. The whole point is that I end up choosing a children’s club. We then proceed to indulge in some wholesome bullshit.

I’ll admit now that I’m a pretty terrible golfer. I’ve got the accuracy of a broken air rifle. My shots are generally way too gentle or they’re those type of zany sitcom antics, the shots that ricochet off plaster hippos and pirates. The first shot of the day, however, goes pretty well. For perhaps the first time in my life, I don’t go grossly over par.

As Rose helpfully clarifies once everyone has taken their turns, “Par was two. Dave, you shot five.”

“Definitely not any sort of gold medal,” Dirk comments. For the sake of simplicity, he’s also using a wheelchair; it’s the same vivid orange as his crutches. He’s also still wearing the shades, much to my ire. “I wouldn’t go rushing off for any sort of golfing tournament.”

“Yeah?” I say, calling over my shoulder as I advance to the next hole, “You’re just a sore loser.”

“For once, Dave has a point,” Kanaya shrugs. She twirls her own club between her fingers. “You shot seven, Dirk.”

In this manner, we continue. We succeed in getting to the fifth-to-last hole. And, as we’re crossing a wooden bridge to get there, I notice someone. He looks a lot like John, albeit with darker skin and neater hair, and a pride pin is affixed to his employee name tag. According to said tag, his name is Jake English. And, as it stands, I’m not the only one who notices him. I end up ramming into the back of Dirk’s chair, seeing as he stopped halfway across the bridge.

He, in return, jumps. His back straightens suddenly and, with a nervous laugh, he twists upper body so that he’s facing me. “Oh. Yeah. Um…”

I respond by shoving him gently forwards. ( _He’s got more core control and balance than I do. I wouldn’t recommend shoving anyone around, but I have a feeling that this might be the beginning of something._ ) “Go say something.”

“Ah. Ha. Nah.” Dirk responds coolly. “Why would he want to talk to me, dude? I’m a…”

“You’re the inventor of some pretty rad shit, dude,” I say, urging him towards John’s near-doppelganger. “Go. Talk to him.”

“Fuck.”

By now, Rose and Kanaya have claimed a bench in the shade. It’s adjacent to our next hole, and it just so happens to be serving as a platform for a mixture between intellectual conversation, juvenile banter, and full-on making out. Obviously, the focus has shifted. Besides, it’s nearly 7:00 PM. All of the kids are back home. Asleep.

“Look, if you’re not doing anything, I’ll do something.”

“You barely know me,” Dirk hisses.

“I know you well enough. If we’re really related, you’ve got some major hots for this guy.” My answer is the perfect foil to his response. It’s confident.

And he, in return, is wholly uncertain. “I don’t know, Dave… I…”

To be honest, I don’t hear the rest of what he has to say. I shove him forwards and approach the stranger, clearing my throat to get his attention.

When Jake turns to face me, he seems nice enough. When he speaks, there’s an obvious pseudo-British accent. As if by rote, he answers, “Welcome to the golf course. If you’re looking for assistance or have lost a ball, I advise you to return to the front desk. I’m just the groundskeeper. Um…” He pauses, seems to dig through his own thoughts for a moment, and offers a nervous smile. “If you score a hole-in-one on the last hole, you’ll receive a voucher for a free game.”

I nod slowly. If anything, this guy is about as clueless as John, though it’s a different kind of clueless. Nonetheless, I proceed to cut straight to the point. “Yeah. Hey. So, my name’s Dave. Strider. Dave Strider. And this is my cousin, Dirk Strider,” seeing as I don’t really have a good gauge on where he is, I gesture in Dirk's general direction. “He’s a robot nut. Loves him some good robots. Also, he thinks you’re cute. Done.”

“I…” Jake stammers.

Dirk intervenes. “Oh fuck. Am… Am I actually related to you?” he groans. He removes his shades long enough to bury his face in his hands in the most dramatic, over-the-top way possible. “I’m sorry, Jake… You’re okay with me calling you Jake, right? So sorry for my absolute assmonkey of a cousin. I promise he won’t bother you again.”

By now, to avoid getting the shit beaten out of me, I’m already leaving the scene of the crime. I can still hear the conversation, though.

And, right now, Jake seems to have taken some sort of interest. “You’re… Dirk? Fascinating name. I’m… If you want to contact me, my Pesterchum is golgothasTerror.”

“Really?” By the tone of his voice, I can practically envision Dirk’s face. It’s probably something like that strange, mildly constipated expression that I have when I’m trying to hide my excitement. “I’m timaeusTestified.”

“Splendid.”

That’s about the last thing I catch wind of. Around now, I reach the point at which I’m out of earshot. Kanaya and Rose, however, seem to have taken interest in the situation. At least, Rose has. She’s offering me a devious grin, a sort of all-knowing look. One of those smug, ‘I know you did it’ looks. If you saw it, you’d know it. Right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **now introducing jake ~~strider~~ english and dave strider: relationship finder**


	58. "I HATE FORCED VACATIONS."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IS IT STILL KIDNAPPING IF YOU'RE OVER EIGHTEEN?

Despite the fact that you haven’t even looked at an alcoholic beverage in the past twenty-four hours, you’re pretty sure that you’re sleepy enough to be considered drunk. And not tipsy, either. No. You’re full-on walking into walls and tripping over cars drunk. You’re so damned sleep deprived that those weird dreams you had while heavily medicated for tooth extraction make more sense than anything you’re thinking right now.

Your plane was delayed for three hours. Something about a storm and high winds and all that. Then, you ended up sitting on the tarmac for another two hours. Apparently, they loaded you, and the other five unlucky fuckers who were sharing this awful experience with you, onto the plane too soon. Once in the air, you end up falling asleep. By the time you wake up, you’ve got over two-hundred texts from Dave.

Where are you? Are you okay? Is the plane still in the air? Have you died?

You respond with the smiling pile of shit emoji before returning to your worthless excuse for a nap.

It doesn’t help; by the time you land, you’re still confused as hell. You’re an hour away from home and, if there’s anything good about all of this, it’s that you see him immediately.

Not that he’s hard to miss. Beyond his appearance, he’s even gone through the trouble of propping one of those name signs. It’s propped up between his shins and the laces of his shoes.

What unfolds is a perfectly anti-climactic reunion. Instead of some sort of slow-motion sequence, wherein you and he rush into each other’s arms, he offers a smirk and a nod. You simply nod. When you’re within earshot, he berates you for your former reply.

“A happy pile of shit ain’t near enough to assure me of your safety, Kark,” he tuts, setting your carryon bag on his lap as he follows you to the baggage claim. “Look, anyone can send me a smiling pile of shit. I need more than that. We need _communication_. Heart-to-heart discussion, bro.”

“How about we get to your car before I fall asleep on the fucking airport floor?”

He shrugs. “That’s a decent plan, too.” Still, perhaps out of a desire to prevent your suggestion from becoming reality, he continues to pester you. “See anything interesting?”

“I saw my cousin’s asscrack a few times more than I ever needed to fucking see it in my entire life. And an alligator.”

“Fascinating.”

By now, you’re clutching your remaining luggage to your chest.

With Dave leading the way, you’re not at all concerned about the fact that you’re walking across a nearly abandoned airport at night. You’re not even bothered by the fact that the parking lot is close to vacant. ( _If anyone so much as thinks about bothering you, Dave will simply punch them into the next century. And, when they land in the next century, you’re sure that he’ll be there to punch them all the way back to now. Thus creating an endless cycle of redundant punches._ ) You’re in the car before you can even think about all of this, actually.

You’re in the car, Dave’s got some nice, relaxing music going, and he’s got the temperature set just the way you like it. The rumbling of the engine is already beginning to lull you to sleep.

“Sweet dreams, Kark,” he snickers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all i've got today. sorry. **comments, feedback, and suggestions for future chapters are appreciated** i'm working on a solid plot here


	59. "I DIDN'T ASK FOR A DREAM JOURNAL."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BECAUSE THIS IS LIKE A DREAM JOURNAL. STOP.

You’re not exactly sure why or how it happened. You know it’s Sunday. That’s a fact. That’s a given. But, what baffles you is why the fuck Dave is trying to convince you to invest in his next business venture.

“I’ll call it… Disk Strider. Yeah. That sounds fuckin’ amazing. Let’s go with that one. Disk Strider. It’ll be a record store, right? And I’ll carry everything from the newest vinyl hits to those weird shitty things you find in dollar bins.” He explains this with a wide grin. From his place behind the kitchen counter, he stares at you with a look of pure… something. Constipation? Anticipation? That feeling that some people get when Mercury is in retrograde? You’re just not sure.

“You… You want me to invest in some sort of batshit record store?”

He shakes his head. Before slamming his fist against the granite countertop, he gently sets down the apple, which he’s been coring for the past ten fucking minutes. “There’s a little place nearby. One of those wonky houses that’s deeper than it is wide? Not exactly the easiest place to get into, but it fits the bill.” With this said, he eagerly wheels towards the bookshelf. He grabs a blank sheet of paper from the plastic shelving—yes, shelving within shelving—and pulls a pen from the bag on the back of his chair. He sketches the layout in a matter of seconds.

The drawing is, of course, crude. It’s a long rectangle with an arrow pointing into it on one end. Against this arrow is a massive, open space; a doorway leads to a smaller space in the back. “Perfect selling area,” clarifies Dave, tapping the pen against the larger of the sections. Moving to the smaller, he tries again to sell this idea. “And it’s got a spot in the back for storage. Perfect place, right?”

“I’m going to be perfectly and one-fucking-hundred percent straight with you, Strider. This is the most fucking outrageous idea you’ve ever had.” ( _At least you’re being honest, right? Honesty is the… best… policy?_ ) “Are you planning on finishing college or…?”

“Maybe.” Dave shrugs. He runs his fingers through his hair for a moment. Then, with a thoughtful sigh, he lowers his hand and absentmindedly tugs on his protective glove. “C’mon, Kark,” he says, his voice backed by an enthusiasm, whose pure and unbridled energy is almost uncharacteristic of him, “Take a fuckin’ chance. Live life. Get fuckin’ wild.”

“I’m ace, so I’d rather not get wild. With anyone. Least of all, you, Strider,” you mumble. The words mean nothing, though; you’re biding your time. You’re letting yourself digest this information. “Am I allowed to help out or…?”

“You’ll be the cofounder of Disk Strider.” As if he knows he’s got you backed into a corner, he folds his arms across his chest. A wide, cocky grin spreads across his face. His left brow raises, until it’s visible above the rims of his shades. “You in?”

After a moment of feigned introspection, you nod. “Fine,” you say, making yourself sound more reluctant than you truly are, “Whatever. It’s not like you can fuck over my financials _that_ much, right?”

“You’re in for a surprise, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **i'm sorry for the short chapters i promise i'm setting up for something big and by big i mean the main plot which is a conspiracy to separate our beloved dorks**


	60. "I'D LIKE AN EARLIER NOTICE."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ **Hikoukigumo (Acoustic Guitar cover)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DFIX0Vgc9HI)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY CAN'T YOU JUST TELL ME THINGS IN A TIMELY MANNER? I THOUGHT WE AGREED ON A ONE WEEK ADVANCE PERIOD.

June 3rd.

“You’re friends with…?”

“Yes,” Kankri responds in a sort of nasal, greater-than-thou tone. You can see the look of stuffy, puffed-up pride in his eyes, and he’s hundreds of miles away. “The Amporas recently relocated to our neighborhood, and they’re lovely people. I don’t see why you hate them so much.”

“Because one of them tried to pick a fight with me and the other beat my boyfriend to the point that I’d call it a fucking assault,” you snap.

“Really?” Kankri huffs. Again, you can see an image of him in your mind. He’s rolling his eyes at you and leaning forwards, his eyes studying you like some sort of strange museum exhibit. “ _Really?_ According to Cronus, Dave isn’t as charming and mild-mannered as you make him out to be.”

“Cronus called me a f—t. What the fuck do you expect?”

_Tsk._ Kankri clicks his tongue. The spectral image of him, which resides in the unfortunate forefront of your attentions, shakes its head. Pinches the bridge of its nose. “Mom and Dad are starting to agree. You’ve blown half of your personal account helping Dave. And that’s lovely and charitable, but you’re going too far.”

“Too far?” you scoff, “Into what?”

“This is an act, no? I’ve been under the assumption that you’ve just been doing an incredible job of maintaining false interest in Dave. Dating him makes you look wonderful, after all. And…”

“I’m not faking it,” you snap. “Look, Kankri, I want you out of my fucking business. Right now.”

“Just so you know…” Kankri says, speaking loud enough to make sure his voice is heard above everything. Above your thoughts. Above the distance you’re trying to put between yourself and the phone.  “He’s not as cool and calm as he seems.”

“Of course he’s not. What do you fucking think happens when you expose a kid as young as he was to the shit he went through?”

“You get the type of person I’d watch my back around,” advises Kankri.

 

After a while to let yourself cool off, you rejoin Dave at the front of the store. Until college restarts, you’ve agreed to help him out. Beyond this, you’ve registered to live off-campus next semester. You’re going to continue sharing the house with him; he, however, hasn’t decided what he wants to do, though.

Naturally, Dave asks you about the call. “Let me guess,” he grumbles, “It was Kankri.”

“Fucking spot on, Strider,” you say, offering a small smile, “You win the lottery.”

He, in return, smirks. “I’d say I won the significant other lottery with you, though.” Though you feel as if the comment carries some sort of sincerity to it, you’re also aware of the singsong tone. “What? He calling to tell you Cronus told him how awful I really am?”

“Pretty much.” After setting your feet atop the front counter and picking up your book, you shrug. “Same old shit.”

Dave shoves his shades up long enough for you to see him roll his eyes. Then, as usual, he drops them back into place. He returns to whatever the hell it is that he’s doing; as far as you can tell, he’s sorting records. Some are being tagged with pretty substantial prices. The highest so far is fifteen dollars for, of all things, the vinyl soundtrack to _Star Wars_. You’re not sure which episode. “So, what’re you thinking?”

“About all that?” You scoff. You, too, roll your eyes. “It’s a load of bullshit. What’re they going to do? Send a hitman after me?”

“Maybe a hitwoman?” Shrugging, Dave scrutinizes the dusty surface of a record. He holds up a magnifying lens to its surface and hums thoughtfully. “I’m just saying that I think Cronus isn’t doing this for shits and giggles. He’s doing it to stir up shit. After all, if he can’t fuck with me, he’ll fuck with you.”

“Ew.” You say this bluntly. “Well, he can have fun. He’s barking up the wrong goddamned tree. Hell, he can hump the fucking thing and I won’t budge.”

“Really?” One of Dave’s brows rises, peeking over the top of his shades. There’s a hint of bemused confusion in his voice. The sort of tone that says, ‘I’m not sure I completely believe you.’ Nonetheless, he maintains his usual composure. He seems to dare you to change the subject.

And, naturally, you do. “Any sales yet?”

“Substantial ones?” Dave frowns. “No. Not yet. But we’ve upped our profit margins from a huge red number to a slightly smaller red number.”

“We’re still in the negatives, then?”

Dave laughs. The sound rouses within your chest a now-familiar fluttering. A pleasant, warm feeling radiates outwards from your core. “Not in the negatives. We’re growing, Kark. Baby steps, dude. Or… Um… If this store was a bird, we couldn’t just chuck the poor fucker off the Empire State Building and expect it to fly, right?”

“I… Guess…?” Though you’ve grown to be accustomed to his odd habits, this is a comparison that’s, ironically enough, flying over your head. You’re not entirely sure of what he’s trying to say. Your best guess is that he’s trying to put a positive spin on the massive amount of money you’ve invested in this nascent business.

“By the way,” he says, calmly, “Bro’s up for parole.”

“What?”

The way he said it was so casual. As if it’s little more than a mild inconvenience.

“You heard me,” he grumbles as he brushes some of the dust off of the record. As his self-created protocol dictates, he uses some sort of fancy, eight dollar cloth. “Bro’s up for parole.”

“Don’t they have hearings, though?”

Dave nods. He chews on his lip and turns the record between his fingers like a flat globe. “Yeah. I’ll be testifying this week—”

“NEXT WEEK?” ( _He couldn’t have told you a little fucking sooner?_ )

“Yup.” The composure he maintains is amazing to you. It’s almost admirable, if not mildly concerning. “Don’t worry, Kark. We’re not going to Houston.” Somehow, he manages a playful grin. If anything, he’s taking this with only as much sincerity as it needs. That is to say, he’s not putting too much emphasis on it. “I’m not really sure what I’ll say, though.”

“Well, there’s the obvious.”

Smirking, Dave quirks his brow. He sets down the vinyl record and repositions himself, wincing slightly as his left knee begins to bounce. “Low blow, dude. But I’m not sure if that’s worth much. I’ve been using the wheelchair card for the past few years. I think faking that I feel sorry for myself only goes so far.”

“Probably. I’m not sure… When is this?”

“Wednesday.”

“I’ll help you work on it later.” It’s not a lie. Obviously. You’re perfectly fine with helping him. “I’m not sure if we should be talking about this in a record store…”

“Touché.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **prepare for trouble! and make it double!**

**Author's Note:**

> # Endnotes...
> 
> Hey! Comments and feedback are welcome and all that. I'm not sure how long this is going and I'll probably be bouncing between this and **Neo-Noir Knights** , so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ If you have any concerns or comments, feel free to ~~drop me a line at sciencechannel.com/howitsmade~~ comment here or send me a message on [**my blog**](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com) I'm also going to admit that I flunked Spanish and switched to French and still know jack shit about French so if I've got something wrong in Spanish, assume it's because I sucked at it.. Anything you want to happen in the story/suggestions are also welcome.


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